Behind Locked Doors
by charmedgrl4ever
Summary: Behind locked doors is where all secrets lie, hidden from the world, hidden from yourself. Waiting. Until the dam breaks, the lock clicks, and the secrets spill out. You can't stop it. The only thing you can do is try your best not to drown.
1. Author's Note

Got bored, so I decided to rewrite the author's note. No, you don't have to reread it. There's nothing worthwhile in it anyway. Go on, close out of this window. You know if you don't, you'll end up wasting two to five minutes of your life - depending on how slowly you read. Don't burn your minutes; they're too precious for that.

* * *

All right, folks, after much agonizing over this story, we finally begin the reposting experience. For those of you who told me you rarely like rewrites better than the originals, I hope this one will be an exception. Mostly because if you liked the first version (and this is, of course, my own humble opinion), you have bad taste in writers. Although that's not to say your taste has improved, perhaps, if you're still reading - though I do like to think I've improved considerably since my start on this website. This will be my last story on fanfiction. All previous stories have already been deleted, and I'm considering removing this one a few months after its completion. That's still up for grabs, though.

A few things I should say before the coming chapters:

1. For the sake of keeping confusion to a minimum, I'll keep the old title of the story for the first couple of chapters (_Second Chances Don't Come Easy_). Afterwards, the new title will replace it. Come on, none of you can say you prefer "Second Chances Don't Come Easy" to "Behind Locked Doors." While the latter might not be a display of brilliance, at least it doesn't sound like... well, what it _was._

2. Reviews are a lost art. I'm not posting stories to fish for compliments. Honestly, at the risk of sounding obnoxious (you'll learn that I don't much care how I sound), I have no interest in readers who give me two-worded "Great chapter!" reviews. Don't waste your time waiting for your computer to send - and my time waiting for my computer to load your message, which wasn't worth very much to either of us in the long wrong. Please feel FREE to read and enjoy. I don't require "payment." Just read the chapter and move on to whatever else you plan on today - free of charge.

That being said, reviews are golden. I want criticism. If you've got that for me, share it! I don't get defensive. I love writing too much to let my ego get in the way of improvement. I want to know the bad and the good. My favorite reviews are most often the ones that come from people trying their very best to insult me. :) I respond personally to all reviews that I think were given personally. (I'm not going to bother with a two-word review, but for anything that shows a modicum of thought, I like to show my appreciation for the feedback.)

3. Quotes. At the top of each chapter, I try to include a quote that pertains to that chapter below. Points to anyone who guesses _how_ the quotes pertain to their respective chapters. I like to hear people's opinions. Many of them, while not what I myself had intended, open up windows that I never noticed in my own story.

4. Someone (if I could remember who, I'd share) told me he wished I would expound a bit on the relationship between Chris and his best friend Jason (renamed Dwight Ryder in the updated version). Actually, I think it's pretty rude of me not to remember who said it because whoever did, I owe that person a lot. That is a key reason that I decided to rewrite this story. In the revamp, I'll be focused a lot more on relationships and people in general. And yes—Dwight now plays a larger role than originally intended. Be prepared to see quite a bit more development of _all_ characters, not just Chris and Dwight. Siblings, cousins, teachers, friends, etc.

Thank you so much for your patience. Now, without further ado, I present to you Behind Locked Doors…


	2. 01 Of Teachers and Elders

**-Of Teachers and Elders-**

_"A teacher who is attempting to teach without inspiring the pupil to learn is hammering on cold iron." –Horace Mann_

* * *

_Thin, gnarled fingers drummed importantly against the cool marble of a stone armrest. Clutched loosely in his left hand was an ebony staff made of smooth, shiny wood. On top in ominous silver, reared the head of an Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake, mouth open as if to strike. In the darkness the demon's two red eyes glimmered like twin beacons, beckoning closer the creature at his feet. There knelt a broad-shouldered demon clad in a long, gray trench coat. The subordinate wore thick, black hunting boots that reached about half a foot higher than his ankles. Head bent, the servant's long, loose, straggly hair fell over his face._

_Abruptly, the demon-lord stilled his fingers, relishing the sudden silence that swallowed the echoing cavern. "I want those powers," he hissed, watching the demon at his feet shift with nearly imperceptible discomfort. Curling his lip, his mouth split into a feral grin. He had control over this demon—__**power**__. But this wasn't enough. No, he wanted more; he __**needed**__ more. "He cannot come into his powers." Leaning forward in his self-proclaimed throne, he crooned, "Do you understand me?"_

_In a gruff, throaty voice the demon responded, "Yes, milord. I won't fail you."_

_Satisfied, he sat back. Bringing his staff between his legs, he wrapped his right hand just below his left. In the dim light, the sculpture's eyes glowed scarlet. "If you do, the Charmed Ones will be the least of your worries."_

_As the demon rose, head still lowered in respect, his master ordered, "For now bide your time. Stay away from them until I give you further instruction. Get yourself more powers—I don't care how—so that you are ready when I next call for you."_

_Once again the demon replied with, "Yes, milord."_

"_Excellent. And, Agramon…" Surprised at the use of his name, the demon glanced up, meeting a pair of cold, crimson eyes. "Do. Not. Fail."_

_With a solemn nod, Agramon swore, "I won't, my liege."_

* * *

(Tuesday, October 1, 2019)

"…wasn't actually a railroad, nor was it underground," Marcy Gowell droned on, absentmindedly tapping a piece of chalk against the palm of her left hand as she paced back and forth across the front of the classroom. "So why, then, was it entitled in that way?"

She glanced at the rows of students slumped in their chairs, eyes glazed over in boredom, idle fingers twirling pens. Two rows back a tall brunette named Mackenzie scribbled furiously in magenta ink. If she didn't already know that the teen was just responding to a note her best friend had passed, Marcy might have taken pleasure from the sight. Most of the students half-heartedly jotted down a few words of notes, probably not even enough to fill more than a line or two of paper if condensed. In the fourth row, second desk from the window that led to freedom, Duncan Alemy watched his teacher with deep interest. His long, blond hair fell wildly to his shoulders. When he spoke, not a common occurrence by any means, he had a habit of flipping his locks backwards with his hand. To his classmates he was known for his love of history; unfortunately, his quiet, almost shy demeanor prevented him from raising his hand to answer the question posed.

Marcy knew better than to call on him or ask him to share his opinion. From previous experience she knew he would merely watch her in curious silence with an unnerving stare until, feeling decidedly awkward, she called on someone else instead.

Marcy Gowell had always been fond of the subject she now attempted to teach these stubborn teenagers—the bane of her existence on most days and yet still the motivation that dragged her out of bed each morning. While she was not perhaps young, she had yet to find Mr. Right. For the time being she had to make do with living with a spoiled, black and gray speckled tabby named Paka. Most mornings all she had were students and their note-passing, spacing-out tendencies. How appealing.

From the first time she recognized her love for history, she knew she wanted to teach; but sometimes – like now, the silence broken only by the buzz of whispers – she wished she had listened to her mother and found a higher-paying occupation. With these kids looking as bored as death, it didn't seem as if she could drastically impact their lives any time soon.

Looking around the classroom, her eyes rested on one brunette in the corner of the room. Glimmering eyes stared at the blackboard behind the teacher, the owner of the orbs clearly off floating in his own little world. His fingers drummed absently against faded, jean pants. His shirt read the name of a band unknown to his teacher. The boy had a talent for finding ways to infuriate those who taught his classes, Marcy being no exception to that rule. Just before she could completely lose her temper, however, he would back down or else say something to force out of her a reluctant chuckle. Somehow, he slipped out of getting a detention slip more times than not, a miracle according to anyone.

"Chris?" Marcy called out. The fifteen-year-old didn't answer, didn't even appear to have heard his teacher call his name. Louder, she repeated, "Chris."

Eyes snapping up, the brunette grinned at Marcy sheepishly from behind curtain-like bangs. Clearly, he had no trouble laughing at himself either. "Huh?"

"The Underground Railroad," she reminded him impatiently.

"What about it, Ms. Gowell?" Chris asked innocently.

Arms folded over a blue, flowery blouse, Marcy clenched the chalk in her right fist and forced herself to keep her voice level. "I asked why people would give the Underground Railroad such a title when it clearly wasn't an underground railroad."

When he shrugged, she saw an impish glint in his eyes, giving her only a couple of seconds to regret calling on him. "Dunno," he replied, "maybe they were hoping that the slave-owners would _think _it was an underground railroad so that they'd waste their time digging underground for them while they freed all the slaves in the meantime." With a satisfied smirk, he leaned back in his chair, one hand tapping his pen against his desk. "After all," he concluded, "anybody who thinks people with different skin colors are less human can't be all that smart."

Chuckles spread through the students who had been paying attention (and by now most knew to tune in when Chris opened his mouth). Not amused in the slightest, Marcy glowered. She supposed she shouldn't be mad; after all, at least Chris proved he wasn't a racist.

"Mr. Halliwell," she began through a scowl and clenched teeth.

"Hm?"

"I know this may be difficult for you to grasp, but while you are in this class I expect you to at least _attempt_ to learn something." At best she knew it was a feeble hope, that he would most likely ignore her speech as he had countless times before. Even so she would continue her endeavor to pound through his thick skull until she finally broke through… or until her hammer snapped, whichever came first. Otherwise what sort of teacher would she be? (A small part of her retorted, _A sane one._)

Shrugging, Chris countered, "I've already learned something."

Marcy raised an expectant eyebrow and questioned him with a doubtful, "Oh?" that silently prodded for an elaboration.

"Yeah. I learned that the Underground Railroad wasn't, in fact, an underground railroad." When a couple of students in the back row snorted, an icy glare in their direction quickly silenced them.

"Chris," Marcy warned with a heavy sigh. As annoying as he could be at times, she was in no mood to dole out a detention today. Truth be told, she oft times found him fairly amusing—when he wasn't trying to make her look like an incompetent fool, of course. She didn't really want to have to send him off to yet another period of study hall, especially since this was the last period of the day. Spending after-school hours in the building was of no interest to anyone, least of all Chris. Of that Marcy was most definitely certain.

"All right, all right," he sighed with that cocky grin he always had plastered on his face. It was the smile of someone who knew he was witty and entertaining and knew others thought so, too. "I'm shutting up." Leaning back in his chair, he swiped his fingers over his lips as if to zip them together then flicked his wrist to throw away the proverbial key. Despite her impatience, Marcy gave a small, half-amused smile.

"What I'm sure Chris _meant_ to say was that the Underground Railroad was given such a title to connote secrecy." Chris gave a vague half-smile and nod, eyes following Marcy's return to the blackboard. There she quickly scrawled out the name Harriet Tubman.

"Now," she continued, her back still turned, "Harriet Tubman was a 'conductor' for the Railroad. To many she was known as Black Moses." As she recommenced with the lesson, once again Chris Halliwell's mind wandered elsewhere.

In annoyance he rubbed a hand over his ears. "Stupid ringing," he muttered under his breath. For the past few minutes a sound like a persistent jackhammer on drugs pounded in his skull; he knew what had caused it…. or more accurately _who_. Why were the Elders summoning _him_—of all the people they could possibly want to see? And why did that have to call him _now_, when he had no way of inconspicuously slipping out to orb to them? In all of half an hour, school would end; and after that they could jingle at him to their heart's content. Now, instead, they forced him to hear the persistent buzzing and feel his migraine steadily grow, and there was nothing he could do to stop it—

"Mr. Halliwell." Whoops. "It hasn't been even five minutes. I trust you have no problems with your memory?"

"No," Chris muttered, more to himself than to her, "just with a headache."

If he thought she would buy that, he was sorely mistaken. Truth be told, he didn't really expect much on her part. He simply stated it for the reason he spoke the truth every other time (that it was magically safe to do so, anyway): to see how outrageous of a reaction he could elicit from his teachers.

"Oh, I'm giving you a headache, am I?" Marcy asked with forced calm as she tried to keep her temper reigned in. Her sympathy for him fast slipped away, giving way to impatience and annoyance.

_The joys of teaching, _she thought to herself dryly. Why had she willingly accepted to make this sort of ordeal a full-time addition to her life?

With an expression of mild surprise, Chris blinked innocently at his teacher. "No. Who wouldn't find the Underground Railroad anything but fascinating?" Said in such seriousness, the words sounded as if he spoke them with great conviction… until a grin split the teen's face once he finished speaking. Quickly, he explained, "I've just got some stupid buzzing in my ears." Man, he was so screwed right now.

Ms. Gowell frowned. "Do you need to see the nurse?"

"Um…" Seeming to weigh his options, Chris hesitated. "Sure, okay. Thanks." Assuming he'd have time to come back later, he left his bag in its position on the floor beside his desk. As he slipped out of the room, the door banged shut behind him. He heard Ms. Gowell resume her lecture, probably relieved to finally have him out of her classroom. Instead of turning left to the nurse's office, however, he headed in the opposite direction, toward the bathroom, entering one of the stalls. Motrin would do little to quell _this _headache; for this only one solution would work. Ascertaining that he was indeed alone in the bathroom, he orbed to the top of the Golden Gate Bridge. Below him cars passed, waves of water crashed loudly over one another. Up here, however, Chris heard nothing but the _whoosh_ of the wind in his ears. In the place his father had long ago revealed to him as an excellent location for privacy, he glared up at a cloudless sky without bothering to hide his consternation.

"What do you want?" he snarled, not at all in the mood to act polite to the self-absorbed jerks who had aggravated and intensified his headache. "I know you've been calling me, so why don't you just orb down here and tell me why already? Or is that not allowed?" he taunted.

As a chilly breeze gently ruffled the boy's hair, the silence echoed almost palpably. With each second that ticked by on his digital watch, Chris grew more and more nervous that someone – namely Ms. Gowell – might notice his absence. Finally, his eyes began to follow an orb pattern through the air, hardening once the magic dissipated to reveal its owner. A blond Elder, who looked suspiciously like somebody's grandmother, decided to grace Chris with her honorable presence. White robes billowed lightly in the breeze; warm, blue eyes crinkled into a smile. Blond locks cropped short, they were tucked neatly behind both ears.

"It's about time," the teen grumbled. "I was beginning to think you stood me up." Unfortunately, Elders weren't known for their sense of humor; this Elder certainly fit the stereotype to the T. Clearly not realizing the concept of _joking,_ she frowned in bemusement.

Letting an exasperated sigh hiss through clenched teeth, he muttered, "Never mind. Listen, why have you guys been calling me? I've got school now, and as much as I'd like to be free of that, people _might_ notice if I suddenly drop off the face of the earth." Again, perfectly good sarcasm was wasted on one who didn't comprehend or, if she did, pretended otherwise.

Bluntly, she informed him, "We would like to assign you a charge."

Silence ensued for a moment or two. "You're joking, right?" Chris practically choked out before remembering that this Elder apparently couldn't even _understand_ the concept of a joke let alone generate one of her own. Briefly forgetting that he was pressed for time, he stared blankly for a moment, mouth agape. Finally, when the news settled into his consciousness, he exploded, "Are you out of your mind? I'm fifteen; I can't be a whitelighter!"

"Being a whitelighter does not depend on your age; it is in your blood," she replied sagely, and Chris wondered if she had spent her life before Elder-hood writing dinky axioms buried within Chinese fortune cookies.

"So what? That doesn't mean I'll have the faintest idea what to do," he cried, throwing his arms heavenward and turning away from the Elder. Disgust evident in his expression, he forced himself to calm down. Up so high, losing control of his emotions – and indirectly his powers – could prove fatal. Yes, it would be a decidedly _bad_ idea. Once he successfully shoved all indignant anger to the back of his mind, he locked it up tightly behind a steel wall and only then deemed it safe to return to the conversation. He found the Elder waiting as patiently as ever, which served only to fuel his vexation.

No malice filtered through his next words, only a deep sense of refusal to accept the proffered assignment. "Why can't you just give the charge to someone else?" No witch or future whitelighter would take him seriously anyway, not the sarcastic, outwardly-rebellious teenager that everyone knew as Chris Halliwell. No way, no how.

"He is a nine-year-old boy, a potential Whitelighter," she said evenly, ignoring the youth's outburst. Chris waited; he had a feeling there was a bit more to it than that.

"His mother is abusive."

Involuntarily, Chris flinched backwards, not the smartest of actions when standing atop a pillar of a very large, very tall bridge such as this one. Steadying himself against a pillar, he thought about the information that the Elder had presented. Often, he and his siblings joked about their mother possessing abusive tendencies what with her magical ability to cause objects to instantaneously combust. Suddenly, it didn't sound so funny anymore.

"We thought it best not to send a full whitelighter to him because he finds it difficult—if possible at all—to trust adults," the Elder continued to explain, her voice level and calm. "Even if he did eventually come to trust a full whitelighter, it would take entirely too long, eat up precious time when he so desperately needs help in the immediate future. He needs someone to confide in, someone whom he can trust."

Sighing, Chris tried to argue half-heartedly, though he already knew he would end up accepting the charge. With a story like that, how could he refuse? "If you want a half-whitelighter to do it, why can't you ask Wyatt? He's older," the teen pointed out sullenly.

By the way the Elder smiled at his question, it seemed as though she had a sense of humor after all, though Chris hadn't the faintest idea what she found so amusing about his inquiry. "We believe you would be best as his whitelighter," she answered enigmatically. When he didn't argue, she added, "His name is Jake," as if such a statement finalized the decision better than any contract ever could.

"All right, fine," Chris grumbled resentfully. "I'll do it. Can I get back to my class now, please—without any more interference from you guys?"

With a quick, benevolent nod, the Elder orbed back Up There, leaving the newly-assigned whitelighter alone with his thoughts. A weighty sigh slipped past his lips. One hand ran through his wind-blown hair, a habit that presented itself whenever frustration got the better of him. How could he manage to keep some kid from falling off "the beaten path" when he was still just a child himself in many ways? And how would he get this cagey, abused little boy to trust him anyway?

_What'll he be like?_ Chris pondered. With a past and present as Jake had, the boy had to be messed up. What if, thanks to the way his mother raised and treated him, he acted like a twitchy monster that Chris couldn't control? Was it even possible for a whitelighter to dislike his own charge? If that happened, would the kid get reassigned; or would Chris just have to deal with him anyway? Just because it wasn't the kid's fault how he had turned out didn't make his actions any less annoying.

_He's a future whitelighter,_ Chris reminded himself, _which means he's good… right? Or used to be anyway so there's still a chance to help him even if he __**is**__ a brat._

Glancing at his wristwatch, Chris let out a string of curses. If he didn't know any better, he would claim the Elders desired nothing more than to sabotage his grades. Forget the witches-in-training and whitelighters-to-be; let's all go gang up on Chris! Brilliant, just brilliant. Exactly what he needed.

_Paranoid much? _a voice in his head smirked.

Pushing all thoughts aside, he slipped his consciousness into the school bathrooms, sensing for any occupants. With everyone bustling around in chaos, more than ready to escape the building after the bell had rung three minutes ago, most of the bathrooms were relatively empty. Finding one completely vacant, he vanished in a swirl of dancing lights.

Slipping calmly out of the stall, the teen headed toward his locker to collect what he needed for the night. In Ms. Gowell's classroom, his backpack squatted in disarray, forgotten and abandoned.

"Halliwell!" a boy called, jogging over from across the hall. A math text book balanced in one hand, he had his bag slung over his shoulder. Out of the entire grade, Keith Manning with his skin as dark as midnight was one of the few who never went through the torture of acne. Short-cropped, black locks curled tightly on his head, dark eyes lively with perpetual amusement.

"Hey, Manning," Chris mumbled, still preoccupied with his previous encounter. "What's up?"

"Um…" Keith started hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. "Ms. Gowell was sort of looking for you. She sent Elizabeth to see how you were doing at the nurse and to ask if you were coming back." Raising a mischievous eyebrow, he remarked, "She came back and told Ms. Gowell that you weren't there." As his eyes darkened in anger for his friend, he mused, "I think she sent her because she guessed that you were ditching class. You know Stevens; she's still as mature as an eight-year-old—just a spoiled tattletale." He winked at Chris, who rolled his eyes.

"Great," the newly-appointed whitelighter groaned, glancing up to glare at the ceiling. Irritated, he huffed, "You so owe me for this." Without a word of explanation, he stalked away, leaving Keith to wonder at the recipient of his companion's frustration.

* * *

When Chris entered Ms. Gowell's classroom, his eyes immediately noted the differences. Without many boisterous teenagers crowded into the room, it looked much larger than he originally thought. Beside his desk, his knapsack had been overturned—most likely in the rush to freedom after the bell. Ms. Gowell sat behind her desk, working. At length, she looked up from the paper she had nearly finished grading and waved her hand towards a chair. "Sit," she said in a surprisingly calm voice. More than yelling could, this odd display disturbed the teen, set him on edge. As a rule, the more competent demons seemed more capable of controlling their emotions; therefore, his wariness extended to all forms of life that possessed the skill.

Politely but stoically, Chris declined, "I'd rather stand if you don't mind." As had become his nervous habit, he subconsciously drummed his fingers against the leg of his jeans. Marcy tried to ignore how he bounced up and down on his heels.

"Okay," she replied slowly. Clicking her pen and setting it down on the desk, she clasped her hands together before continuing in seriousness. "Care to tell me why you find my class so boring?"

Eyes never moving, Chris stared at her in that unnerving way he had. Realizing how blatantly his nerves showed, the teen stopped bouncing and forced his hand to lay still at his side. Just as with demons, he would _not_ let himself show weakness. "It's not that," he protested, "it's just… complicated."

Right. Like she hadn't heard the "complicated" excuse from every other student she encountered. All teenagers thought their lives were complicated; it was a fact of life that they did not believe that anyone else in the world could ever possibly have a dilemma even remotely similar to their own. For the rest of their lives, they were doomed to remain misunderstood and trodden upon… or at least until they grew out of that inevitable stage of paranoia.

"I know a little something about complicated," Ms. Gowell countered, eyeing her student. "Try me."

Slowly, Chris shook his head. "I can't. I'm sorry."

The significant difference perceived between this Chris and the overconfident version of him Ms. Gowell put up with during class every day startled her. Now he seemed more reserved somehow. Cautious… In a strange way almost vulnerable. If he had not lied about a headache just to cut her class, she may have even taken pity on the teen.

"Chris, if I knew you had a good reason…" Over steepled fingers, she stared at the tightened shoulders, the forced-stiff fingers, the lip captured between his teeth.

"I do," he insisted, eyes downcast. She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't speak again, nor did he raise his gaze.

"How's your headache?" she sighed at length, giving up and changing the subject.

"Fine," Chris mumbled, "I… took something for it." _It's not a lie per se,_ he silently excused. To rid himself of the pounding, he had orbed to the Elders. As far as he was concerned, that was just as good as Advil.

"The nurse said you didn't come to see her."

If she expected him to fumble when caught in the lie, she was sorely dissatisfied. Far too practiced in the graceful art, Chris didn't look phased at getting caught out. "I know," he replied without hesitation, and explained, "I have Tylenol in my locker, so I took some of that and went to lie down in the cafeteria for some quiet." In his words he injected just enough boredom to make them sound honest. Despite this Ms. Gowell had her suspicions about the tale.

"Really?" Eyes narrowed, the teacher leaned forward slightly.

With an almost mocking smirk, Chris leaned back against a student's desk and tilted his head to one side. Again, since he really had no reason to lie, he decided not to: "No, not really," he admitted. Besides, now at least he could take great pleasure in the way Ms. Gowell's face turned a vivid array of colors: slightly pale and then pinkish to reddish back to that pasty-gray. Before she could open her mouth, he ruefully added, "But I can't tell you the real truth, so you might as well accept that one." Feeling calmer now, he commended himself with silent praise. When dealing with such a subject, humor was always the best path.

An awkward silence filled the room. Finally, Ms. Gowell cleared her throat and said, "I'm sorry, Chris; but unless you have a plausible explanation…" She let her sentence hang there for a moment, not meant as a threat but sounding suspiciously like one anyway.

"But it's a really good excuse. I just… can't… tell you what it is." He winced. Even to his own ears the explanation sounded pathetic. Still, though, he did not regret his decision. Let no one call Chris Halliwell a liar.

Shaking her head apologetically, she tore a pink sheet off of the pad on her desk. Signing it with a slow hand, she handed it over to her student. "I'm sorry, Chris."

Inwardly, Chris groaned: not today of all days; he had to meet his new charge today! But of course, he knew her could not tell _that_ to his history teacher. Suppressing a sigh, he gave a doleful nod and accepted the proffered detention slip from her hand. Trudging over to his seat, where his possessions still lay strewn across the desk, he stuffed his notebook into his backpack. Without going back to grading papers, Ms. Gowell watched him zip each pocket with extra force, despite the indifferent expression adorning his face. With his expression a mask, this violent zipping was the only part of him that betrayed his true irritation—like a scowl painted in actions. Scrunching the pink slip in his left hand, crushing it, he slung his bag over his shoulder and left the room without a sound. Sighing, Marcy returned her attention to the papers in front of her.

* * *

**Remember: reviews are golden. Such an easy way to give someone gold, isn't it?**

**(Sam, the title and the "like a scowl painted in actions" were both in your honor. _(chuckles)_)**


	3. 02 Of Truth and Trust

**-Of Truth and Trust-**

"_Children often have imaginary playmates. I suspect that half of them are really their guardian angels." –Eileen Elias Freeman_

(Tuesday, October 1, 2019)

When he exited Ms. Gowell's classroom, Chris was stopped by his best friend, Dwight Ryder. The mischievous, relatively short teenager stared at Chris with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance. Arms folded, eyebrows raised, he didn't move as Chris stepped closer.

"So. Detention. Sounds like fun." His voice practically drowned in sarcasm.

With a wince, Chris remembered that he and Dwight had planned to see a movie together that afternoon. Well, there was nothing he could do about that now. Somehow, he doubted Ms. Gowell would be all that moved by his plight.

"I'm sor—"

Waving an impatient hand, Dwight interrupted, "Sorry, yeah, I know. Of all the days to pull something like this, Chris. I mean come _on_." As he spoke, he walked with Chris in the direction of the detention room.

Without much thought, Chris followed. "It wasn't a trick, Dwight, I swear. You know me."

"Yeah, I do," Dwight countered with a sidelong glance at his friend. "Ditching class by pretending to have a headache? Sounds exactly like something you would do."

"I know," Chris readily agreed, "But would I lie to _you_ about it?"

Eyes glimmering with amusement, Dwight chuckled, "Chris, you wouldn't lie to the _teacher_ about it."

"All the more so…" Chris smirked.

For a little while they walked in comfortable silence together. The duo slunk past lockers with expletives scribbled on in permanent marker, gliding at a leisurely pace towards the detention room—or, as the school so elegantly liked to call it to soothe its conscience, "Study Hall." With Dwight there to keep him company, Chris no longer felt a looming sense of defeat. Instead he looked at detention as a whole hour to come up with a reasonable excuse for his mother for why he was so late getting home.

_Shouldn't be too hard,_ he thought as he stopped in front of the classroom door. _After all the times I've had to do it, it should be a piece of cake._ Standing in front of the detention room, he heard a telltale sigh of boredom behind the door that accurately depicted how he himself felt. _Just get this over with,_ he berated himself. Before Chris could, Dwight reached out and grasped the doorknob firmly. Winking at Chris, he shoved open the door and stepped inside. Behind him, grinning, smiling, Chris entered as well.

"Mr. Ryder, Mr. Halliwell," a voice drawled, "how nice of you to join us. You may take a seat…" Eyeing the two with extreme distaste, he added, "_Separately._" At the teacher's desk sat a squat, old man with a shiny, balding head. What little hair he still possessed escaped to his chin in a lame attempt at a goatee. Though Chris had seen him many times in the hallways, he only ever gave him attention when in Study Hall… and even then, only reluctantly.

Casually, both teens trudged past the teacher. As he walked by, Chris deposited his slip on the desk as the rules indicated he should. (By now he knew the rules of detention as well as he knew the Book of Shadows.)

Just about to sit down—beside Dwight despite the man's "suggestion"—that same monotonous voice snapped, "Mr. Ryder."

From where he had just sat down, Dwight looked up innocently. "Yeah?"

Tapping his hand irritably against his desk, the teacher demanded, "You owe me a slip."

With a nonchalant shrug the teen said, "Whoops—must have left it in my backpack by my locker. My bad."

As if speaking to a child, the man wagged a finger at the trespasser. "I think not, Mr. Ryder. You and Mr. Halliwell won't be pulling a stunt like this again." Damn, he wasn't supposed to remember the other times they had attempted to stick together like this. "Mr. Halliwell can do his own time." With a threatening jab towards the door, he punctuated, "With_out_ assistance."

Casting an apologetic glance at Chris, the boy in question headed toward the door. "See you tomorrow, Chris," he said, and then left. Once he had gone, the three other students in the room, who had watched the spectacle with mild intrigue, returned to their previous disinterest.

Without his friend to accompany him, this detention would prove very dull indeed. Dropping his bag at the foot of a vacant desk, Chris sank into its seat, unzipped his bag, and yanked out his math notebook. Since he figured he might as well get some work done while stuck here, he opened the notebook to the page where he had copied down a few math problems and got started.

About five minutes passed before the door creaked open again, and in walked a stormy-eyed redhead. Without a word she slapped her pink slip down onto the teacher's desk in much the same way Chris had and stormed to an empty chair in the last row of desks.

Chris glanced up from his notebook to examine the newcomer. Unable to recognize her, he could only guess at her age—sophomore from the looks of it. Though she looked older than he, it wasn't by much. She wore knee-length, black shorts and a short-sleeved t-shirt. An exotic mix of gray and blue, her eyes glinted with volatile emotion. With four piercings, two in either ear, and a skull as a ring on her right thumb, she looked like just the person who belonged in a room like this.

Since Chris had never been one to judge people by their appearances, however (after all, demons came in all varieties), he noticed above all else her expression and not her punk-rock attire. The hard, forced indifference that clenched her teeth and the flashing anger in her eyes illustrated her firm belief that she had been punished unjustly.

The brunette focused his gaze onto the front of the decrepit classroom to where the old man sat, looking every bit a part of the classroom as any of the rusting desks. His wrinkles gave his eyes a permanent expression of sagging fatigue. The man's choice of attire included a plaid sweater that had to be from the nineties, a dark blue tie (and who wore those anymore?), and tan pants. Smirking, Chris averted his gaze and stared back down at his notebook. Calmly, he returned to his math.

* * *

So agonizingly slowly did the minutes tick past that Chris was sure the clock's hands had inched backwards. Finally, after fifty-five more minutes, which felt more like endless hours than anything, the teacher glanced at his watch and stood up. "Okay," he told the students, "you're free to go." Not to Chris's surprise, the old man was the first one to waddle shamelessly out the door.

A freshman Chris recognized by face but not by name (not in any of his classes as far as Chris could tell) rummaged around through his bag for his cell phone to call a parent. By the time Chris looked up, the redhead had vanished; and the two other students in the room were both seniors who had their cars parked in the school lot.

Chris tarried behind, using the pretense of needing to tie his shoe (multiple times, apparently) until the other freshman departed. Finally, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he was gone, a pillar of orbs showering down in his wake.

When he reappeared behind a cluster of outdoor trash cans, an indistinguishable stench rose up to greet his nostrils. Pinching his nose shut with his thumb and forefinger, he grabbed the strap hanging on his shoulder with his left hand. Though it happened more than he cared to admit, this time thankfully he hadn't dropped it on the orb over here. With that out of the way, he glanced down at the concrete path, relying on his whitelighter sensing powers to help him locate his new charge.

No magical sign jumped down at him; instead, he felt like an idiot standing in the backyard of some seemingly empty house with his eyes closed. While Chris Halliwell was never one to give up, he knew his mom was probably already digging out the scrying crystal. Besides, he hadn't even wanted a charge anyway.

Turning around to orb away, he froze as an echoing _'clang'_ reached his ears. If he hadn't been trained to hear even the tiniest of noises, it was faint enough that he would have missed it. With a quick sigh – it looked like he'd meet his charge today after all – he headed off to find the source of the sound. Cutting through a few backyards—jumping over a number of bushes—he didn't have to walk far before spotting it. The last house of a dead-end street, the one-floor home had white paint peeling off its walls. A window had accidentally been left open, which – Chris realized – was the only reason any sound had rebounded out to him. From within came a muffled voice, stuttering words inaudible to the teen.

He slunk closer to the house, pausing just a few feet away from the open window and crouching down so as not to be spotted. He strained his ears to catch whatever words might be spoken next.

He needn't have strained so hard to hear: the next words were screamed. "You stupid boy!" shrieked a female voice, so high-pitched that Chris immediately clapped his hands over his ears. "You broke my vase!"

This time, with difficulty, Chris heard the faint, stammered apology. "I-I'm sorry," the boy gasped, "M'sorry, I didn't m-mean to."

Though he felt his muscles tighten, Chris forced himself to remain where he stooped. As something connected with the boy's face, the teen winced. By the sound of the _SMACK_ – and the child's weak whimper – Chris deduced that whatever it was had to be harder than the palm of someone's hand.

"P-p-please," Jake cried softly, "I-I didn't m-mean to d-do it."

"Shut up, just shut up, you worthless, little shit!"

Although he could see nothing through the window, the witchlighter easily imagined the scene: a young boy curled up in the corner of the room, tears streaming down black and blue cheeks; a woman, face contorted in rage, eyes alight with fury, hands closed around some object that she had used to "teach her son a lesson."

_She's teaching him a lesson, all right,_ Chris thought darkly. _She's teaching him not to trust anyone, teaching him that he's not worth two cents._

Seeming content with the fear she had instilled in her son, the mother let the object in her hand clatter noisily to the floor. "Well," she announced smugly, "this place had better be cleaned up by the time I get back." Chris listened to the clickety-clack of stilettos crossing the floor, retreating. He waited until he heard the front door open and then slam shut. When he heard the car rev to life and drive away, he stood, brushed the dirt from his jeans, and dropped his backpack in the dirt. He'd have time to grab it before orbing home. Without bothering to walk around to the front of the yard, he used his powers to orb straight inside. After all, he figured: might as well make his façade as "guardian angel" more realistic.

Unfortunately or fortunately Chris wasn't sure, but either way the sobbing boy didn't notice the teen's magical entrance. Chris stood in a disheveled, cluttered kitchen, a pan lying on the floor a few feet in front of him. (_What she used to hit him,_ he thought coldly.) As he took a few silent steps closer to his charge, he noticed the shattered remains of an old vase scattered across the floor. Eyes hardening at the sight, he focused his attention on Jake.

Long, dirty blond bangs fell into eyes that were currently squeezed shut to ward off the pain. Knees curled to his stomach, the boy cried silent tears. Though he tried to deny the existence of his fear, the very thought of his mother returning made his chest ache. If she came back before the mess was cleared, there'd be hell to pay.

That thought reminded Jake of the job she had assigned. If he wanted to finish on time, he figured he'd better get started immediately. At times she came home only hours later, but sometimes – and one could never tell which days this would occur – the front door was thrown violently open only minutes after her original departure.

_Just enough time for another quick drink,_ he thought bitterly. Finally drying his eyes with the backs of his hands, he raised his gaze—and froze at the sight that greeted his bloodshot eyes. Before him stood a complete stranger, brown hair partially obscuring two jade eyes, which glittered fiercely. The stranger looked as if he'd been standing there some minutes already.

Frantically, the nine-year-old boy clamored to his feet. The first thing Chris noticed were the boy's eyes—golden brown. After that, his gaze moved lower, roving over Jake's face. Already, his cheek had begun to darken and swell from where the frying pan had struck. Like a horde of demons circling a victim, a colorful array of bruises created a ring around one large, red splotch. For a moment the only though that passed through Chris's mind was how amazing it was that Jake's jaw was still fully in tact. Even with this, he was certain Jake had some blood that he concealed—maybe a chipped tooth or two.

"W-who are you?"

The hesitant voice forced Chris from his reverie. Reaching out to the boy to offer assurance, he wasn't too surprised when Jake yanked himself out of reach, eyeing the stranger with blatant distrust. However, though he expected it, to experience it hurt nonetheless. No, he hadn't thought the boy would fall into his arms and cry out all his troubles nor instantly trust him upon their first encounter. Still… by no means naïve, Chris Halliwell as an optimist at heart. A cynical one perhaps but an optimist nevertheless. While Jake's distrust came as no surprise to the teen, he most definitely could not deny its impact on him.

"Jake," Chris murmured, pain filling his glittering orbs. Like a bullet, Jake's eyes shot up to stare at the newcomer in awe. How had he known his name? "Jake, listen to me: I won't hurt you."

When Jake found nothing but compassion in Chris's eyes, he bit his lip. "I didn't break it," he whispered, averting his eyes to look instead at the floor behind the stranger. Following Jake's gaze, Chris saw the pieces of the vase that littered the floor. "I swear I didn't do it. Mommy… it got knocked over last night, but… it was a long night last night; so I don't think she remembered so good."

"Relax, Jake, I believe you," Chris swore—though he didn't really. Without a doubt in his mind Chris knew Jake's mom hadn't had "a long night." More like a long _drink_. Still, now was not the time to call him on the lie. As he watched, the boy continued to shuffle backwards until his back bumped up against the kitchen's off-white countertop. "I promise I won't hurt you," the teen repeated quietly, "You can trust me."

Mutely, Jake shook his head, eyes squeezing shut for oh-so many reasons. Fear shined through his closed expression, head lowering, body slumping to the floor. Slowly, fresh tears carved their way down his cheeks, stinging the bruises as they went. No, this complete stranger could not be trusted; _no one_ could be trusted.

"Let me help you, Jake." Striding over to the freezer, Chris yanked it open. A blast of frigid air coasted over his face and arms as he reached for a box of frozen peas. After living at the Halliwell manor for fifteen years, accustomed to ice packs, bandages, and disinfectant ointments stored in practically every room, he found it somewhat disconcerting to find not even a single ice pack in Jake's freezer. Then again, Jake's mom didn't exactly have to worry about demons attacking at pretty much any hour of the day or night. In either case he supposed frozen peas would suffice.

To his confusion, when he tried to ofer the small package to Jake, his hand was roughly propelled back to his chest. "N-no!" Jake cried, golden brown eyes wide with terror. "P-put it back before s-she finds out!"

Assuming Jake's outburst referred to his mother, Chris didn't budge.

When Jake realized Chris wouldn't listen, he began to sob harder. In a wavering voice he explained, "I'm n-not 'llowed to touch any of her s-stuff without a-asking."

Realizing that he wouldn't be able to convince the hysterical boy to take the frozen box, Chris returned it to the freezer and decided to approach Jake through a different tactic. Squatting beside the boy, he crossed his legs in the shape of a pretzel, hands falling into his lap. "Hi, my name's Chris," he said with a cheerful smile. "So, Jake," he continued, "what's your favorite color?" Though he wanted to touch the whimpering child on the shoulder to offer comfort, he decided against it.

After Jake failed to respond, Chris sighed. This was getting him nowhere. How could he help a boy who didn't even _trust_ him?

_Patience,_ he told himself with grim determination. _This will take some time. _Of all the talents attributed to the young witch, patience had never been one of them. Not while a rambunctious little boy waiting for one of Mommy's famous oatmeal raisin cookies and not now.

As gently as he could, he said, "Jake, there's something I need to tell you; but if you want to find out what it is, you've got to look at me."

Unwilling to raise his gaze off the floor, the boy stubbornly replied, "I don't want you to tell me." To himself he thought fiercely, _If I don't look he'll go away. Then I can clean up the mess and do my homework. That's all. Just gotta wait him out. I'm good at that kinda stuff._

"Yes you do."

For the briefest of moments, Jake's curious eyes shot up to meet Chris's. Though it wasn't much of a gesture, for right now Chris would accept it as enough. Baby steps. As if to reward the boy for the sliver of trust he offered—however small—Chris leaned toward him. In a conspiratorial tone he whispered, "I came to watch over you."

Bewildered, Jake stared at Chris in uncertainty before finally responding, "I don't get it."

"I'm your guardian angel sent down to protect you," Chris explained. In his mind the witch crossed imaginary fingers and prayed Jake would believe the presented explanation. While kids did have a way of believing the unbelievable, this little boy had been raised thinking his worth amounted to just about nil. What reason would he have to accept that someone actually cared enough to send him his own personal angel? Still, he hoped that some piece inside of Jake hadn't died completely and still held _some_ sense of self-value.

When Jake didn't lift his head or show any apparent interest, Chris nearly sighed in defeat. Deep down, though, something stopped him from quitting on this boy—this child whose own mother had given up on raising him right. Instead, he cautiously continued, "For me to do that, you've got to let me in, understand? I can only help you if you trust me. I know it'll be hard, and I'm not asking for it to happen right away; but you have to give me a chance, all right?"

Pain laboring his heavy breaths, Jake closed his eyes. "I don't… don't even _know_ you." Though he didn't speak it allowed, he thought, _And I can't trust anybody._

Contemplating for a moment, Chris nodded. "Okay, fair enough. I won't press you for that right now. How about if we're just—you know, friends? Just as long as you don't tell anybody my secret because then very bad things would happen to me." On a whim he added forcefully, "I _trust _you not to blab my secret, so I'm not worried."

Biting his lip as if weighing his options, Jake finally gave a sharp nod, his eyes fleetingly meeting Chris's. In a surge of pride, Chris smiled.

_Chris!_

_Damn,_ Chris thought. Just when he started making some progress with his new charge, someone had to cut him off. Sighing, Chris rose to his feet and glanced down at Jake, trying to conceal his frustration behind a calm exterior. "Jake, I've got to go, okay? But," he added quickly as Jake averted his gaze, "I'll be back tomorrow, I promise."

Though Jake seemed confused by the statement (why would anyone want to come _back?_), he said nothing. With a heavy sigh, Chris decided to let the kid's distrust pass this once. They'd have time to work on that tomorrow. When he reached down to ruffle Jake's hair, the nine-year-old shrunk back. Chris forced himself not to look disappointed, at least not in Jake's presence; that would get him absolutely nowhere.

With deliberate casualty, he pretended not to notice. "If you need _anything_"—he gave Jake a meaningful stare—"just call my name, and I'll come."

Relieved the angel had not been angered by his lack of affection, Jake breathed out a sigh. From his position on the floor, he craned his neck to look up at his angel. Skeptically, he reasoned, "What if you're too far away to hear me?" Even though he had no intention of taking up the angel's time, he figured he should ask… just in case.

"Trust me," Chris reassured, "I'll hear you." Staring gravely down at his charge, he added, "Just remember, your mom can't find out about me, right?"

If Chris hadn't already expected the reaction, he would have completely missed the barely noticeable flinch. "Right," Jake affirmed at length.

Before Jake could react, Chris pulled him into a tight embrace. The moment Jake saw Chris's arms move toward him, he tensed his stomach and shoulders. At first Chris assumed it was just because he caught the kid off guard, that Jake always expected the worst (for good reason). Even after a few moments in the hug, though, the nine-year-old didn't relax. Only when Chris drew away, disappointed—though refusing to show it—did Jake release the breath he had been holding. Feeling slightly let down that he hadn't received a response, Chris sighed. For the third time, he repeated, "I won't hurt you. I promise."

After another frantic call from his mother, Chris forced himself to leave. Patting Jake's stiff shoulder in what he hoped would come across as an encouraging way, he orbed home.

As bright, blue lights surrounded his "angel," Jake stared in numb astonishment. When the lights subsided, Chris was gone, leaving only a dumbfounded child behind him. A few minutes later, the nine-year-old shook himself from his stupor, gingerly pressed two fingers against his multicolored cheek with a wince, and stared down at the broken vase. Pensively, he ran his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth. Where he had previously tasted blood, he felt nothing now but tenderness. This time, the "episode" had left no permanent scars—no chipped or broken teeth. He shook his head.

Since the bruises on his cheek were so out in the open, so public, he knew he'd have to stay home from school tomorrow and probably Thursday, too. Most of the time Mom's beatings were in places that could be covered up, hidden. Sometimes, though, she got so mad, so… confused… that she forgot about the risks and beat him until every inch of his soft skin was swollen and discolored. Again, he shook his head, walking over to the broom that leaned against the fridge, and started to sweep up the broken shards scattered across the floor.

If she wasn't careful, she would put herself at risk; Jake couldn't let that happen.

* * *

Meanwhile, Chris orbed to the manor to find his mother pacing from one end of the living room to the other. When she whirled around to pace back the other way, she saw him standing there, eyes betraying guilt. Frozen in her tracks with both hands glued to her hips, Piper's eyes blazed. Almost immediately, yelling ensued. "Where the hell were you?" Not even giving him the chance to defend himself, she continued, "Do you know how worried I was? I had half a mind to summon your butt back here! If it weren't for the exposure risk, I would have done it by now, too. How was I supposed to know if you had gotten kidnapped by a demon or something?"

Dully, Chris mumbled, "I had detention, Mom."

_It's not a complete lie exactly, _he justified silently. _It's just not the whole truth either…_ For some reason he decided to say nothing about his new charge. At least for right now, he didn't want his mom to know about that.

Only slightly mollified, Piper grumbled, "Well, a rational person would have called—or at least orbed. I had no idea where you were; do you know how worried I was?" As her anger began to ebb, relief took its place. Relief that her younger son still had all his limbs in tact. In this family one never knew.

"I couldn't call; the teacher wouldn't let me." Scowling resentfully, he muttered, "I swear she's out to get me." Almost hopefully, he added, "Hey, maybe she's a demon." At the moment he wouldn't have minded an excuse to vanquish her. Not only had she handed him a ticket to imprisonment for another hour on a day where he really couldn't afford to waste time, but she taught _history_. What normal human being even remotely _liked_ that subject?

A small smile flitted across Piper's features as she laughed, "Don't get your hopes up, buster."

"Ah well," Chris replied lightly, hitching up one shoulder in a half-shrug. "That's okay. I can always turn her into a toad anyway."

"Chris!" Piper admonished. With Chris she could never be sure of whether his claims held any depth of seriousness.

Defensively, Chris waved his hands in front of his face. "Only joking, Mom; don't blow anything up." Piper rolled her eyes at the passé joke Phoebe had taught her nephews long ago, later passing it on to her niece when Prue grew old enough to understand. She'd heard that phrase only… oh, about one million times in her life. For once could they come up with something _original_ maybe?

Changing the subject, she informed him, "There's some food in the fridge." As she headed towards the kitchen, she called over her shoulder, "Do you want me to heat some of it up for you?"

"No thanks, I'm not hungry," Chris declined. "I think I'll just head upstairs and start on my homework."

If Piper held any astonishment at Chris's complete willingness to do his homework without any insistence on her part, she concealed it well, save for a slight, bewildered frown. "Well… all right," she conceded at length, "if you're absolutely sure…" She turned to watch him nod in confirmation and vanish in a pillar of orbs.

Exasperated, she called up the stairs, "No orbing in the—"

"Sorry!" Chris yelled back before she had even finished her admonishment, clearly not even slightly apologetic. Hearing his bedroom door slam shut, she sighed and rolled her eyes, a gesture she had picked up from her kids a while back now.

Biting her lip as the last of her motherly concerns drained out of her, she let out a breath of air between parted lips. Her feet instinctively carried her to the kitchen, her safe haven, where a large slice of lasagna sat in the microwave, waiting for Chris to bring home his appetite. On the screen the number 2:00 blinked on and off. Although she'd made it sound to Chris as if she hadn't really gone out of her way, Piper had reheated that plate for him three times already.

With a somewhat melancholy sigh, she retrieved a tin pan of lasagna from the fridge, uncovered it, and slid the reheated piece back inside. After replacing the pan on the lowest shelf in the refrigerator, she picked up the plate. With an absentminded air, she turned on the faucet to rinse the dish, thoughts still on her second little boy.

…On the second little boy that used to announce, "I can't wait to be all growed up!" and then bound happily off to play with his toy trucks. From that moment onward Piper had wished her baby would be slightly more inclined to stay young so that she could continue to spoil and baby him. By the time he was five, he already wiped her kisses from his cheeks; and by the time he was seven, he was "too old" to get tucked in at night (except for on special occasions). And now? Now her baby didn't even jump for her cooking or ask to help her in the kitchen as he once did with such exuberance. Just as he had always wanted, her little Chris was "all growed up."

* * *

Meanwhile, Chris slouched on his bed, one arm folded beneath his cheek, the other draped across his pillow. At the moment the object that captured his attention was a dark, forest-green tome. Yellowed and cracked in many places, its pages flipped one after the other as Chris's eyes scanned each passage briefly. When, a couple of hours later, a knock on his bedroom door echoed into the room, he barely blinked. Without pausing – seemingly without even having heard the sound – Chris continued to read, continued to flip. Page after page passed, demon after demon, spell after spell.

Barely half a minute passed before the person previously knocking outside Chris's door burst into the room, expression twisted into an irritated scowl. Of average height and weight, the girl had long, dark locks that cascaded down her shoulders, matching her mother's. Glittering, blue eyes were more akin to her father's. She wore a pink and white, short-sleeved shirt and bellbottom jeans—_just a phase she's going through, _Piper had insisted. Grams had gone through such a phase, too, in her years in the living world, she would point out.

"Right," her younger sister Paige would retort, "except her phase was called the sixties." On a much darker note, she would then murmur, "Besides, remember what broke Grams from that phase?" And the question would linger palpably in the deadly quiet atmosphere until someone mustered the courage to change the subject.

Without so much as glancing up even once, Chris grunted at his little sister, "Get out of my room."

Instead of leaving, the twelve-year-old mini-Piper swung her hands onto her hips and stated, "I knocked."

Eyebrows raised appraisingly, Chris focused his indifferent stare on her face. Had she been anyone else, such an intense, scrutinizing gaze would have made her squirm. "Very good, Prue," the teen smirked. "Did I forget to mention the part about waiting for a 'come in'?"

Hands still splayed across her hips, Prue leaned forward slightly and rolled sky blue eyes at the ceiling. Then, glowering, her eyes fell upon the book left open on Chris's bed. "What are you doing with the Book of Shadows down here?" she demanded accusingly.

"Uh, reading?" Chris answered, phrasing the response as a question as if to add, _'Isn't it obvious?'_

"_Duh,_" she snapped back impatiently. "What demon are you looking for?" Excitement built in her voice as she questioned, "Was there an attack?" Hopping forward like an eager bunny (_or one that's high on drugs,_ Chris thought sardonically to himself), she squashed down beside her brother, leaning over his shoulder to get a good look at the page that lay open. As she read the title above the passage, a frown marred her features. Confused, she inquired, "You were attacked by Leprechauns?"

With a scowl, Chris shut the Book of Shadows and ordered, "Get out of my room, twerp. This is none of your business; just leave it alone." It was a feeble hope, Chris knew; he didn't bother expecting her to even acknowledge he had spoken at all.

As he had suspected she would, the preteen ignored her brother's "suggestion." Instead she deduced, "So that's a 'no' then, right? Why were you open to that page then? Are you protecting a Leprechaun innocent? Can I help?"

"No," Chris replied coolly in answer to her third question, "and no," in answer to her fourth. A little less calmly, he snapped, "Now beat it." When he raised his hand to take a swipe at her, she ducked beneath his arm and slid off the bed out of his reach. She made no move to leave the room, however. Losing his patience, Chris tilted his head toward the ceiling and yelled, "Mo-om! Get Prue out of my room!"

Shuffling echoed from the bottom of the stairs. Up to them wafted their mother's voice like the delicate aroma of her own freshly-baked cookies just as they slid out of the oven.

"Prue…" Its tone was a warning one.

"All right, all right," she grumbled, loud enough for Piper to hear her surrender. Shooting an annoyed glare at Chris – she'd only wanted to help, after all – she trudged out of his bedroom and into her own.

Before reopening the Book of Shadows, Chris waited quietly, listening for sounds of his parents or siblings. The only noises were the creaks of a manor built up over a century ago, the faucet running in the kitchen, the bedsprings in Prue's room as she sank her weight on her bed, and his own gentle breathing. With no further hesitation, he flipped open the tome and sighed. Leprechauns. At first, having skimmed the paragraph, he thought he had found a possible solution to his problems: a Leprechaun could sprinkle Jake with good luck to somehow protect him from his mother's drunken outbursts. Upon deeper scrutiny, however, he realized this wasn't so.

Leprechauns knew no more about the luck they doled out than the person upon whom it was bestowed. Their luck could sway either way: good or bad, and Chris was not willing to put Jake at risk even more with the hope that he would "get lucky." Without that as an option, Chris realized he would have to come up with another way to protect the boy.

Sighing heavily, he closed the text and hitched it under one arm. Sliding off his bed, he padded towards his door.

Outside his window, night had descended. When he flicked off his bedroom light, his room was thrown into darkness. Closing the door with his free hand, he headed towards the attic stairs, tiptoeing past three bedrooms so as not to attract unwanted attention. If Wyatt noticed him sneaking up to the attic, he might take interest. Ultimately, though, he would ignore that mounting curiosity because it would drag him away from the mounds of homework piled at his desk. Either one of his parents would storm right up after him and demand for him to explain why he'd just spent hours rifling through the ancient pages of the Book of Shadows. Chris wasn't so sure he was ready to reveal his charge to his family just yet. And Prue… well, she was Prue; and didn't that just explain everything?

A little while later, after having snuck into the kitchen to grab a strawberry yogurt from the fridge, Chris lay in bed, shirtless, wearing a pair of Wyatt's old pajama pants. With his hands folded over his head on his pillow, he stared blankly at the ceiling, deep in thought.

Jake's predicament loomed into mind, keeping him awake as the minutes ticked away one by one. Before he knew it, half an hour had passed, his eyes now stinging every time he blinked; yet he was no closer to sleep than before. Just as he would drift into that space between the waking world and the one of dreams, the image of Jake cowering on the floor would jolt him awake. Once again, he would sit up straight in bed, breathing coming in shallow gasps, wondering how Jake could put up with such fear on a constant, regular basis.

Rolling over onto his side, he tucked one hand beneath his ear and closed his eyes. As he finally began to drift off, he wondered vaguely, _How am I going to pay attention in school tomorrow with Jake occupying all my thoughts? _Reminding himself about school also added another thought: _I didn't do any of my homew—_

"Shoot!"

Sitting up sharply in bed, his eyes darted to the corner of his room. Even as he prayed to find his bag in its usual place, he knew it would not be there. After all, how could it? He had never brought it back from Jake's house. God, what kind of idiotic mess had he made _this _time?

Groaning, he stumbled out of bed. Without bothering to pull on a shirt or change his pajama bottoms, he orbed to Jake's home. When he reappeared, he realized how moronic an idea _that_ was. He was just full of those today, wasn't he?

Though only the first night of October, the air had already grown crisp and cool. As chilly wind tugged at his pajamas, he wrapped his arms around his naked torso. Stumbling behind Jake's house, he searched blindly for the knapsack he had stupidly left earlier that afternoon. Finally, after many agonizing minutes, his hand grasped the material of his schoolbag. Yanking it over his shoulder, he orbed back to the warmth of his bedroom where he wasted no time in clamoring beneath his covers.

Though he didn't know, inside the home he had just left, a slumbering child dreamt of dancing, guardian angels, ones that left tiny, blue speckles of light dancing in their wakes.

* * *

**Please forgive me for the terrible delay; my time has been stolen from my grasp. I have had the chapter ready for posting for nearly two weeks now, but I only just managed to type up the last edits and post.**

**Remember - reviews are golden. When people write, it takes time... You should pay us for our time: hence, reviews are gold. Gold is a form of paying. Are you understanding where this is leading?**

**I will leave you to it, then.**

* * *

**Replies to anonymous reviews:**

ariex- Ah, thank you. I absolutely love imagery, hence the vividness I (try to) add to my writing. The voice inside Chris's head? Um... I don't recall there being one. It was probably just his own thought process, in which case yes, that would be his own voice inside his head.

shivs - _(chuckles)_ I like the line "painted in actions" as well. That is my poetic side peeking through. _(wink)_ I am trying to make Chris a realistic, _normal_ kind of guy. I love the psychology of humans; more than the magic of Charmed, the family dynamic is what intrigues me. This story will, of course, be about magic but will focus quite a bit on the Halliwells as a family, Chris as a human being rather than a witch.


	4. 03 Of Liars and Lethargy

Note: I had not planned on posting today, but a few minutes ago I decided I should. I have chosen to dedicate this chapter to SJ because she is the reason I am posting today. I hope this gives you a reason to smile. (Folks, do not expect a dedication in every chapter. It will be only at those times when I feel a dedication is necessary, as I feel at the moment.)

**-Of Liars and Lethargy-**

"_I have a 'carpe diem' mug and, truthfully, at six in the morning the words do not make me want to seize the day. They make me want to slap a dead poet." –Joanne Sherman_

(Wednesday, October 2, 2019)

Morning arrived far too quickly for Chris Halliwell's liking. As the sun's pinkish rays crept along the carpet and then up his wall, the young witch rolled over to face away from his window. Eyes squeezed adamantly shut, he tugged a navy blue blanket over his head as if to defy the day. This earned him all of twenty seconds before a certain Charmed One's exasperated tone pierced the relative quiet, offering no leeway for bargaining.

"Wyatt!" Painfully sharp to Chris's still-half-asleep ears, her voice echoed up the flight of stairs. "Chris!" Then, unifying the two names to save time, her voice, or both: "Boys!"

Somehow, as Chris stumbled out from under the blankets, he wasn't surprised to hear Prue's name excluded from the call. Nearly every morning, when the brothers trudged into the kitchen, eyes still glued shut, their younger sister already perched comfortably at the kitchen table before a bowl of cereal. Dressed for school, she would smirk at the boys as they bungled around the room until Piper took pity on them and prepared their breakfast herself. Without a doubt Prue took great pleasure in watching her brothers suffer.

As Chris threw on a dark brown t-shirt and a pair of jeans (they _looked_ clean and smelled… well, _relatively_ fresh), he thought crossly to himself, _Yeah? Well, the feeling's mutual, sis._

This morning Chris took his sweet time so that by the time he burst into the kitchen, even Wyatt was already waiting for him. Standing impatiently in the threshold with his backpack, Wyatt stared at his brother past raised eyebrows. If Chris had to guess, he would assume that the older teen had waited for him only on Piper's orders. The overly cautious mother preferred that her two boys walked together.

The moment Chris appeared, Wyatt demanded, "You ready?" Not giving Chris the chance to point out that he hadn't even grabbed breakfast, the older teen continued, "Good. Let's go." Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, leaving Chris to hurry after him, stomach growling in protest.

* * *

Once down the block the boys slowed from a jog to a casual pace. Still feeling the tug of sleep, Chris squinted his eyes and cursed at the light of the sun. Under his breath he swore at Wednesdays for being in the middle of the week. By then memory of the tranquility and freedom from the previous weekend had already faded, but the build-up of excitement for the next one had yet to arrive. By far it was the worst day of every week. Most people despised Mondays most, but then again Chris rarely belonged to the group of "most people."

"No sleep?" Wyatt guessed sympathetically. Chris's grunt was all the answer he would receive.

When they got to where the bus picked them up (on the days when they weren't late and had to orb instead), they stood silently side by side. Only a few minutes passed before the school bus pulled up beside them, and the two siblings stumbled up the three steps. While Wyatt plopped down beside his friends, Chris sank into an empty seat and dozed off almost immediately.

* * *

For Chris the day passed in a haze. The only part that stood out in his mind was the lunch bell. The instant it rang, the boy shot out of his seat and into the hallway. Having enough sense to drop his knapsack in front of his locker, he headed for the closest bathroom to find a quiet place to orb. Before he reached one, however, a voice broke through his thoughts.

"Hey, Halliwell!"

With a mental groan, Chris stopped and turned to see Dwight Ryder jogging over to him, an easy grin lighting his features. Matching his smile, light brown eyes twinkled with merriment. One hand casually went up to spike up the short, dark brown hair just above his forehead. What he seemed to lack in height, he made up for in bouncing personality. Though the kid often knew just what to say to pull Chris from an ill-tempered mood, right now Chris wished he hadn't been seen.

Slowing his pace as he came closer, Dwight quipped, "You left pretty quick after that bell. You hate bio that much, huh?."

"No, no—it's just that I—" But Dwight was already walking towards the lunchroom, expecting Chris to follow. Suppressing a hiss of frustration, the brunette trotted after his friend in the direction from which he had come.

* * *

As Chris paid for lunch with a crumpled five-dollar bill (Wyatt hadn't given him time to make his own this morning), Dwight found them two empty seats. Though it tasted like paste, Chris wolfed down his food as soon as he fell into the chair. He ignored the strange looks his action elicited from most at the table.

Only when Dwight said, "Chris, slow down, man; the stuff isn't going anywhere!" did he pause. By then, though, his tray was mostly clean anyway.

Though Dwight started up a conversation, Chris found it difficult to concentrate, too distracted to follow what his friend said. After what seemed like ages, Chris stopped the other teen with an apologetic, "Look, Dwight, I have to run. I completely forgot about that thing we had due today…" Already standing, he grabbed his tray, dumped it into a nearby trash bin, and strode out of the cafeteria before Dwight could utter a single word of protest. Frowning, Dwight watched him retreat. As Chris exited the cafeteria, he wondered in bewilderment, _What's gotten into __**him**__?_

While crowded during class time, bathrooms were notoriously empty during the lunch period. Therefore, after making sure no one—namely Dwight—had followed, Chris had no trouble slipping into a stall and orbing.

* * *

This time knowing his destination, Chris easily rematerialized in the familiar kitchen of his charge. Taking in his surroundings with a quick sweep of his eyes, he noted that the shards of the vase had been swept up and cleared away. Somehow, he didn't think that was Jake's mom's doing. Other than that, not much struck him as all that different from the previous night. The only other blatant disparity was the fact that yesterday the counter had been relatively clean. Now it was littered with soggy napkins, which had obviously been used to mop up an amber liquid, the result of a transparent, tipped-over bottle. In disgust Chris averted his gaze, eyes burning with livid intensity.

Tentative, he quietly called into the stillness, "Jake?"

With his sense of hearing acutely attuned to even the most sensitive sounds, he picked up a muffled thump from down the hall, followed by a stream of curses. Without thinking, the young witch chased the sound down the hallway and to a half-closed door. Peering into the room, he caught sight of a closet door ajar to his right, a queen-sized bed pushed up against the wall beneath a grimy window, and a round-faced woman on her hands and knees. One arm reached beneath the bed for something. From under it came a semi-unrolled paper towel roll, unraveled like a red carpet, which Chris assumed was the object she currently attempted to retrieve. Sure enough, when she stood (swaying slightly, Chris noticed), she clutched in her thick grip the cylindrical end of the roll.

With her body half turned toward the door, Chris could see limp hair a couple of shades darker than Jake's; it fell just past her shoulders in a dry, tangled mess of knots. Skin pale and sallow, Chris had difficulty reminding himself that this woman was not a demon.

_Though she might as well be,_ he mused bitterly, _the way she treats her kid. _Of their own volition, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

Before Chris had time to react, the woman turned, revealing dulled, light brown eyes that squinted against the brightness of the room. When she caught sight of the intruder, suspicion and derision laced her demand of "Who are _you_?"

Heart pounding frantically, the teen ignored the question. His desperate, silent plea was that she was currently too drunk to remember the encounter once he left. Otherwise…

Forcing his voice not to waver, he shot back with a question of his own: "Where's Jake?" At his words, the boy's mother's eyes narrowed – if possible – even further. He schooled his expression into one of detached curiosity… or tried to. If he succeeded or not was a different story entirely.

"What do _you_ care?" the woman snapped, her words slurring together somewhat. "You aren't from the school, are you?" The hand holding the paper towel roll gripped it tighter and tighter until her knuckles paled. Cheeks flushed from the drink and expression twisted in disgust, she took a threatening step towards the young man standing in the threshold. He had yet to step into the room.

"Maybe," came his cool response, snatching the opportunity she had inadvertently presented. "Where is he?"

"You have no right!" she cried ferociously, "No right! Just coming—barging into my house like this without my permission. Just because I f'got t'call Jake in sick this morning. No right!" She seemed to be muttering more to herself than the visitor, but nevertheless Chris responded.

"Sick, huh?" Since he didn't believe her in the slightest, he didn't bother pretending otherwise.

"That's right," Jake's mother snapped, "sick. Was whining this morning about feeling a bit under the weather so I let him get back into bed."

_I'll bet,_ the witch sneered, the only evidence of his revulsion showing in the slight narrowing of his flashing, green eyes.

"And," she continued to rant, oblivious to the teen's swirling emotions, "he's sleeping right now. I just checked in on him half'n hour ago." Shoving past the boy, she stormed down the hall. He watched the carpet of paper towels trail after her into the kitchen. For one vicious moment Chris felt the overwhelming urge to step on and rip the train of disposable towels. Realizing how petty and childish the desire made him seem, he squelched it and left the room as well. Instead of following Jake's mom to the kitchen where he would no doubt find her drying up a spill, he went in search of something else.

In front of a closed door he stopped to knock. Receiving no answer, he inched it open and peered inside. Very soon he realized he had stepped into the bathroom and not Jake's bedroom. The sink, a salmon-colored porcelain appliance, looked as if it could use a good scrubbing-down. Come to think of it, so did the matching bathtub and off-white toilet seat. The whole room practically screamed "clean me!" Cracked, off-white tiles lining the floor and walls seemed dangerous; Chris wondered how many times those jagged, broken edges had bitten into somebody's skin.

Shutting the door, he moved down the hall, stopping before the only other door. Again, before entering, he knocked and heard no response. For one illogical moment he entertained the thought that Jake _had_ no bedroom, that his cruel, abusive mother made him sleep out beneath the car like a chained-up dog. When the door opened to reveal a modest bedroom, however, he discarded the ridiculous notion and scolded his overactive imagination for running so wildly at a time like this.

Inside he found a wooden desk sanded down and painted over in white, slammed up against the wall to the right of the door. On it, papers were spread messily, a cylindrical container hosted a cluster of pencils and pens, and a reading lamp stood in darkness. A dark blue, plastic chair was pushed underneath the desk. To one side of the desk was a small, translucent trash bin and to the other a backpack. On the left side of the door Chris saw a light brown, almost beige dresser, which he assumed contained Jake's belongings. To be honest he had expected to find some dirty clothes strewn across the floor or perhaps some toys, but no—the boy's laundry was dumped neatly into a hamper at the foot of his bed, and his toys were stuffed into a large, navy-blue box marked "toys" in someone's barely legible scribble. A few paces away from the dresser, on the wall directly opposite the door, was a small bed with a racecar comforter. As it seemed from this scene, his charge's mom had been telling the truth after all: within the bed slept one small, thin, nine-year-old boy. In this position, huddled beneath his blanket with only his head and one curled hand showing, he looked so vulnerable, lost in an ocean of painful reality.

Against his better judgment, Chris crept into the room, pausing a few feet away from the bed. Though the shades were drawn, throwing the room into shadows, he could clearly make out the bruise that darkened the boy's cheek. Staring at the eyelashes brushing at the skin below Jake's eyes, the teenager bit his lip to keep from reaching forward to caress Jake's cheek. The boy need not be woken now.

Turning to leave the room, Chris let the boy remain asleep. Before he closed the door, he murmured, "Sweet dreams, Jake." Then, in one nine-year-old boy's bedroom, all turned to silence once again.

* * *

According to the digital watch Chris's parents had bought him for his birthday two years prior, the time was currently 1:04 and nineteen seconds. Lunch ended at 12:30. Oh great, he was _so _earning a detention for this. Before the teen would have the audacity to think, "At least it can't get any worse," the proverbial rain began to pour: today was Wednesday. In the middle of the week, Chris's first period after lunch was history.

Debating whether or not he should bring his bag with him, he finally decided against it. Without his backpack slung over his shoulder, he could more easily to sneak in and seem as if he'd been there all the while. Instead, tearing a few pages from his notebook and pocketing a green gel pen (in case he got the unlikely urge to actually take notes), he headed towards history, fingers crossed for luck in his pockets.

He didn't know why he bothered; the Powers that Be seemed to take great pleasure in causing him unnecessary pain and humiliation. Today, of course, was no different.

* * *

When the door to her classroom opened and closed quietly and one of her students slunk towards his seat, Marcy Gowell did not bother turning to watch his entrance; she already knew who it was. Pausing her lecture for a moment, she dryly remarked, "How nice of you to grace us all with your presence, Chris. However, seeing as you've already missed quite a chunk of the lesson and will be hard pressed to catch up now, I daresay you might find it in your interest to remain elsewhere for the duration of the period." As she spoke, she fished around in her bag, soon procuring a pink strip of paper. Signing it with an angry flourish of her wrist, she shoved it into his hand. With it came a withering glare. "Come back at the end of class, please; I believe you and I will have quite a bit to discuss." Despite how she had phrased the statement, Chris didn't have the lunacy to call it a request. He knew – along with the rest of the students slumped in desks behind him – that it was a direct order from Queen History herself.

With a defeated sigh, he accepted the prisoner's ticket and trudged down the hall. Without any of the hesitation he possessed the night before, Chris shoved open the door to Study Hall, head held high as if proud of his accomplishment when in truth his greatest wish right now was to get vanquished on the spot. Or at the very least possessed so that he could have someone else experience the embarrassment in his place. Hands clenched, he quickly shoved them into his pockets, taking them out only to dump the detention slip on the teacher's desk.

The same teacher from the previous afternoon reclined in his chair. This time he wore a dull blue, long-sleeved, button-down shirt tucked into a pair of dark gray pants. When Chris walked by, the old man raised an eyebrow as if to say, "Again?"

Ignoring the man's blatant, albeit silent, derision, the witch slunk to the back of the room and collapsed into an empty chair. Feeling righteously sullen, he glowered at the teacher, who ignored him completely, choosing instead to focus his full attention on the paperwork in front of him. He didn't deem these students important enough to give his awareness, a fact of which most students thoroughly took advantage.

Two seats in front of Chris, a boy about three years his senior slumped in a more or less comfortable position. Leaning back casually, his left hand dangled while his right, clutching a silver pocket knife, scratched fervently at the wooden desk holding him captive. Jet-black hair fell to his shoulders, partially obscuring Chris's view. If the witch squinted and leaned a bit to his right, he could distinguish the first letter etched into the desk: N.

Besides for that twelfth grader, only three others took up desks. The first, a junior by the looks of it, calmly attacked a notebook, making use of his copious amount of spare time. Off in a corner, the second boy had very clearly fallen asleep, slumped forward in his seat. Arms crossed on the desk, his head rested on top of them in what looked to Chris like a supremely awkward position. The third was a girl he actually recognized—the sophomore from the previous afternoon with multiple piercings and a fearsome glare. Was she _always_ here?

Bored, Chris sighed, wishing he had thought to bring his bag with him so at least he'd have _something_ to do, even if it _was_ homework. With nothing to keep him occupied, though, he began to lightly drum his fingers against the desk. Each time all four fingers fell, another second on his watch ticked past. As he did that, he watched the senior's pocket knife carve into the desk: N–I–C–H–O–L–A—

"Defacing school property, Mister Murphy." The unexpected sound made Chris start in surprise, but the senior – Nicholas Murphy, apparently – merely offered a lazy, insolent smirk. Suddenly, the ancient teacher was standing so close that Chris was sure he could smell moth balls from the man's wrinkles. Right now, so close to choking on the stench that stood only a desk in front of him, the witch could think only about how lucky he was that the teacher had not chosen to pick on _him._ With that thought foremost in his mind, he quickly stilled his hands.

"I'm sure Mrs. Kennedy will have something to say about _that._" His barely contained fury was hardly lost on any of the five, except perhaps the napping teen in the corner. "Up." With one crooked finger he motioned for the senior to follow him.

Shoving the knife deep into the pocket of his black cargo pants, the boy indolently slipped out of his chair and trailed the teacher to the door.

Before they left the room, the man turned around to face the four remaining students. Wagging a finger as one would to a misbehaving child, he warned, "Do anything while I'm gone, and Mrs. Kennedy will be the first to hear of it. Be sure of that." Making a show of spinning back around, he stormed out of the room after an indifferent Nicholas Murphy.

For a couple of seconds the room actually stayed quiet, and Chris himself held his breath, wondering who would make the first move. To be honest he wasn't all that surprised when the angry sophomore jumped from her seat, skull earrings dangling while her magenta studs glistened in the light, and stormed out of the room. Glancing up briefly, the junior shrugged and almost returned to his homework before catching Chris's eye.

A slight, curious frown creasing his forehead, he wondered, "You're not leaving?"

Surprised, Chris inquired, "Should I?"

With a superior smirk that could almost rival Nicholas Murphy's, the boy replied, "Do what you want, kid; I sure as hell don't care." Before Chris could formulate a response, the junior's attention had returned to his notebook.

Sighing, Chris leaned to the side, twisting his body until he heard his back give a satisfied _crack._ Then, letting his torso fall forward onto the desk, he decided that the sleeping teen had the right of it after all. Eyelids growing heavy, he closed them and attempted to succumb to the wistful calls of his subconscious.

* * *

The bell that signaled the end of the period jerked Chris awake. Pressing his palms into gritty eyes, he shook himself into a better state of wakefulness—or at least semi-proper awareness. When he was sure he wouldn't bump into the nearest wall, he stood. The others had already left, except for Notebook Kid, as Chris had dubbed him, who didn't seem as if he planned on leaving any time soon. With a simple shrug Chris traipsed out of Study Hall and then, dragging his feet, wove through the hallways towards Ms. Gowell's classroom. Defiantly, he glared straight ahead, determined not to let his history teacher win this newest "battle." (_How appropriate for a history class, _he thought with an inward smirk.) Just like last time, his detainment had not been even remotely his fault; this time he refused to take the heat.

When he entered the classroom, Ms. Gowell set aside her text book, which she had been perusing for something that probably would not have interested Chris in the slightest. She nodded her head to acknowledge his presence. "Chris," she intoned politely

"Ms. Gowell," he mimicked in all but the civility she had used in her own greeting. With both hands stuffed deep into his pockets where she could not see them, Chris did not try to refrain from balling them into tight fists. This was so unfair! He had done nothing to deserve punishment for two days in a row. Out of all the rules he had broken, _these_ were actually for the Greater Good. Did that count for _nothing_?

Patiently, Marcy sighed. "Please sit," she offered, motioning to the desk beside which Chris stood.

Through narrowed eyes, he watched her calm expression, waiting for – expecting – her to finally lose her temper if he were insolent enough. Although he usually possessed at least a few meager traits of self-preservation as did every Halliwell, a barrier of resentment seemed to have grown before it, blocking all thoughts except the ones that screamed, _It's not fair!_

"No thanks," came his terse reply. As if to prove himself, he stood straighter and crossed his arms, expression set in a morose scowl. If he had stopped to think for a moment, he would have realized how childish his behavior appeared. But he did not think; instead, he just _felt,_ a dangerous idea for a witch, whose powers were so closely linked to his emotions. From an early age, Chris learned that losing his temper was unacceptable. Not because he might hit a child in his nursery class but because said child might just end up thrown magically out of a tree and breaking a wrist or leg or neck. In fact, before he could control his powers, Piper _actually_ agreed to send her son to Magic School, as she had done for Wyatt and Prue when they had passed the same age. Since Chris had been barely three at the time, he couldn't recall much of anything from his year at Magic School; apparently, though, it had been enough to bring his powers under his reign. Ever since then he attended public school just like all the other "normal" kids his age. Since then, very rarely in his life did his telekinesis escape his control.

Ms. Gowell's voice gently tugged him from his reverie, and he forced himself to pay attention. After his escape earlier, he highly doubted she would tolerate more slacking off.

"Chris…" she sighed, obviously unsure of how to proceed. At length, she began with, "High school is a very important time in a person's life." That was true enough… but he already knew that. "These are the years where you find yourself and decide how and where you want to direct the rest of your life, which path you want to choose." Out of her mouth Chris could practically visualize the clichés pouring past her lips. What was she babbling about?

Injecting as much boredom in his tone as he could, Chris raised an eyebrow and questioned, "And your point is…?"

Still infuriatingly patient, Marcy bluntly stated, "If you skip classes and don't ever try to do well, you will—"

What Chris would do he would never find out because his sudden burst of anger interrupted her lecture. "I _wasn't_ skipping class!" he cried indignantly. "I just… lost track of time!"

This time it was Marcy's turn to raise an eyebrow. Instead of retorting immediately, she waited a breath as if trying to control her own emotions. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she was finally able to hide the skepticism as she inquired, "Didn't you notice when all the other students finished lunch and went to their next periods?" Again hesitating, as if uncertain of what she could say to press into Chris the importance of this issue, she brushed her hands along her thighs while she thought. "You may not have known the time," she said, voice cautious and slow, "but surely you would have realized that no one else was in the cafeteria."

"I didn't," Chris stated flatly, unwilling to elaborate.

This time Marcy couldn't conceal her exasperation. Did he have to act purposely difficult? On her desk she clasped both hands together and leaned forward, eyes hard with suspicion. "Well, where were you then?"

In stony silence Chris refused to speak, but apparently that wasn't one of his brighter ideas.

Releasing her hands from their grip, Ms. Gowell splayed them palms-down across the desk. Eyes narrowed, she had to physically refrain from shoving her chair back so that she could tower over her student. (Even like that she wasn't much taller than he, but it felt more reassuring to her if she could stand and glare.) Remaining in her seat, though at the very edge of the chair, she sharply demanded, "Did you leave school grounds?" Since he did not want to dig himself deeper in his lie – didn't know what to say even if he _wanted_ to – he said nothing. With a groan, Ms. Gowell cried, "Chris, you're throwing your life away! I want to help you. Really, I do—but to do that I need your help."

Her pleading set something off in Chris, and he scowled plainly. Who was she to interfere in his life? "To help me you need my help," he repeated, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "If I could help you to help me, don't you think I'd be able to help myself?" Just to make his statement more confusing, he added, "With_out_ your help?" Averting his gaze, he glared at his shoes and snapped, "Besides, I don't need help."

This time, hissing in frustration, Marcy _did_ stand, sidestepping her desk so that she could stand a few feet in front of her student with no obstruction to block her. "Really, Chris, open your eyes. You're not a child anymore; you can't just ditch class and expect it not to affect you." Leaning her weight against her desk, she crossed her arms and stated, "Life doesn't work that way."

Exasperation building, Chris clenched his fists even tighter, hiding them deep within his pockets. It was all he could do to keep from pacing away from his infuriating teacher, and he could guess where _that_ would get him: another invitation to Study Hall. Somehow, that did not seem like the greatest incentive. With power over his fate like this, he was not prepared to mouth off. Much. "Yeah, whatever," he retorted instead, coupling it with a sarcastic roll of his emerald eyes, "was that all you wanted to do—tell me how screwed up my life is?"

"Chris…"

"Because if so," he continued over her voice, pretending she had not spoken, "I think I'll go to my next class now. Wouldn't want Mrs. Williams to think I'm _ditching_ or anything, would I?" Glaring at his teacher's hands, which were clasped together again, he gave a nearly indiscernible sneer. Before she opened her mouth, he crossed the room, hand reaching out to grasp the doorknob. He paused only for a breath to listen for what she might say next.

Knowing she would get nothing more out of the uncooperative teen, Marcy returned to her chair and offered a resigned nod. "I expect to see you in class _on time_ tomorrow," she said by way of dismissal.

"Duh," he snorted, throwing open the classroom door and vanishing through it.

As Marcy stood to close the classroom door, she heaved a fatigued sigh. _Well,_ she thought when she realized Chris had left before giving her the time to write him a late pass for his next teacher. _That went well…_

* * *

**Never forget, my dears, reviews are flecks of gold spilling from a Leprechaun's pot. Everybody wants to reach the end of that rainbow; help me get there, too. Please review.**

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**Replies to anonymous reviews:**

shivs - That is one of the greatest compliments I could receive for this story in various ways. Psychology is perhaps a passion of mine - definitely an interest at the very least. I find human nature absolutely fascinating and love to incorporate it into my works. That you mentioned it specifically (as well as the family dynamics, the piece in particular that I am working to perfect in this story) thrilled me. Also, I am glad you are finding yourself able to understand from this something that you have never experienced in your life. After all, that is the job of every author, right? I hope to be achieving this.

bahzad** - **No worries, there will be plenty of magic and magical scenes in the future. No matter the situation, I will also always have a bit of comic relief in the form of someone's sense of humor, whether it be Chris's, Wyatt's, Dwight's, or any other character for that matter. I have a variety of forms: sarcasm, dry humor, black humor, and your everyday stupid decision-making. I hope to employ every one of them. Makes for an interesting story, right? Mm, I am glad you like this story of ADE because I very much do as well. This one is my baby whereas ADE was more of... a distant cousin whom you cannot wait to see off. _(chuckles)_

crystal - _Yes!_ My Chris reminds you of Charmed's Chris? Such a statement - there is no higher compliment to be paid in a fanfic story. Hm, I love your take on the quote at the beginning of the previous chapter. My thoughts were more with Ms. Gowell, the poor woman, and the fact that the students do not seem to possess even an inkling of a desire to learn history. I absolutely adored your take, however, about Chris and how he does not want the Elders to assign him a charge - until the Elder presented information in a way interesting to him that would make him open to the idea (unlike Ms. Gowell's way of presenting). Love the thought!

artsfan - I know I have yet to respond. To be honest I completely forgot! I will get started on that as soon as I post this chapter. Please forgive me for not getting back to you sooner, my dear. That was pretty awful of me.


	5. 04 Of Truths and Troublemakers

**-Of Truths and Troublemakers-**

"_Anyone entrusted with power will abuse it if not also animated with love of truth and virtue, no matter whether he be prince or one of the people." –Jean de la Fontaine_

* * *

(year: 1996)

"Ah, there's my baby girl!" Beneath a thick mustache of rusty-reddish whiskers, a broad smile appeared. Bright, white teeth flashing, toned arms gripped a little blond child. With a deep, booming clap of thunderous laughter, he swung her up into the air. As her eyes shone with glee, she clung to her dad's arms with a vice-like grip. Then, as he held her firmly around the waist with one arm, the man brought her down and used the other hand to tickle her mercilessly.

"No, no, no!" she shrieked, flailing wildly in her father's grip. "Daddy, stop it! Stop! No, don—aaaah!"

When the tickles and involuntary giggles ceased, the tall man dumped his large frame into the overstuffed armchair a few feet away from him. His child set on one knee, he looked down into her twinkling eyes and asked, "So, Car-Car, how was school today?"

Straightening up proudly, she stared directly into her dad's bright eyes. "Miss Daniels put a star by my name," the girl exclaimed in excitement. "She said it was 'cuz I was such a awesome helper."

"I already knew that about you," her father replied with a cheerful smile. "Did you draw any lovely pictures for me today?"

Though she tried, in her position the girl failed to look even the slightest bit intimidating as she curled her hands and set them securely on her hips. Or, rather, on her legs because, sitting down as she was, placing her fists _comfortably_ on her hips would have made quite a feat indeed. "Da-_ad_," she whined, "I'm _seven._ I don't do baby stuff like that anymore."

Laughter dancing merrily in his hazel eyes, her father responded, "I'm sorry, Car-Car; I forgot."

Properly satisfied with the contrite apology, the mature and un-babyish seven-year-old went with a dignified, "Hmph."

Across the room, the front door banged open. _Must be Jordan,_ the child thought; _he's gotta do just 'bout __**everything**__ real loud t'make sure everyone in the entire world notices him._ Sure enough, a few seconds later, a well-toned, muscular teenager stepped into the room. Boots thick and clunky, they pounded heavily against the scratched, wooden floor. His backpack slung over one shoulder, he crossed the room and headed towards the hallway without so much as a single glance towards the two who currently occupied the room.

From the armchair, the man's deep voice called, "Jordan."

Stopping mid-step, the teenager turned to face his father and sister. "Oh, hi, Dad. Hey, Carmen." With one hand, he brushed out of his eyes the hair that matched his father's. Already he had begun to grow a miniature mustache, which he took pride in flaunting.

"Hey, Jordan," Carmen squeaked.

Resettling his daughter more comfortably on his knee, the father asked, "How was your history exam?"

A shrug. "Not sure. I think I did all right on the multiple choice, but I _totally_ bombed that essay."

Looking somewhat uncertain, the man raised an eyebrow at his son. He glanced between his two children, noticing that Carmen didn't seem to possess his same bewilderment. At length, he asked his son, "Is 'bombed' a good thing or a bad thing?"

At the question, even Carmen's eyes widened in incredulity. A pair of large, hazel orbs and smaller, brown ones stared at the father as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra ear or two. Exasperated, the siblings cried in unison, "A _bad_ thing!" as if the answer were that obvious.

"Wh—" he chuckled, staring at his daughter in wide-eyed disbelief that even _she_ had known the connotation of the word more than he. "But… what if you say that something is 'da bomb'?"

"Dad!" Jordan groaned, clapping his hands over his ears as if doing so might ward off his father's words. When he moved his hands away, he dropped his head into them as if to conceal his mortification. He moaned, "Nobody says that anymore. That's from _ages_ ago!" Right now his only consolation was that none of his friends had been there to hear his dad say that. Oh God, how _embarrassing._

First nodding sagely in agreement, Carmen soon burst into giggles at the expression of mock affront written plainly on her father's handsome face. As Jordan turned around to leave, the girl wriggled off her father's lap and began to follow her oldest brother into the hallway.

"Did you finish all your homework, peach?" her father called after her before she could completely disappear.

Scrunching her nose and the foolish nickname, Carmen replied, "Yes, Daddy." Then, casting him an annoyed expression, she added in a huff, "Homework's _easy_." As she vanished through the threshold, her burly father began to chuckle.

* * *

(Wednesday, October 2, 2019)

When Chris entered his next classroom, it was to find the students in utter chaos. Three rambunctious, teenage boys chased each other around the perimeter of the classroom, pencils extended as if to defy the grandmotherly statement of _"You'll poke and eye out if you run with that!"_ Out of the remaining seven, Brandon and Dustin found desks in the middle of the classroom and now worked diligently on homework. (Dustin worked on an assignment that had been due two days prior.) Excluding one, the remaining four—Mason, Timothy, Kevin, and George—clustered together towards the front of the room, chatting casually with five of the female students. Huddled together in the corner, Cecilia, Emily, Samantha, and Sheryl pored over their text books, obviously trying to assemble a quiet study group in the face of all the noise. The tenth female student, a serene girl named Rina, sat cross-legged atop the teacher's desk, leaning over a book so that long, ebony hair spilling into her face. One hand cupping her cheek, her eyes moved across the lines of her novel, deeply engrossed in the fantasy. With Mrs. Williams nowhere in sight, Chris let out a relieved sigh. At least _something _had gone his way today because certainly nothing else had.

From the back of the room, a lone Dwight waved him over. Reaching to his shoulder (damn, in his anger he'd forgotten his backpack), the witch trotted over to his friend. An affable pat on the shoulder loosened his tension a bit. Edgily, he offered a forced smile.

"That bad, huh?" Dwight asked with a sympathetic wince.

"Oh no, not at all," Chris snapped, sarcasm dripping from his words. He collapsed into an empty desk, watching Dwight do the same and turn to face him. "She's trying to _help_ me." Rolling his eyes, he muttered, "Geez." At Dwight's half-bewildered, half-amused stare, Chris elaborated. "She just kept me there to explain how I'm screwing up my life, is all—to help me, she says… so that she can stay all self-righteous and high and mighty while she beats me to the ground. How wonderful for her," he sneered. Slamming his fist against the desk, he snapped, "What's it got to do with her, huh? It's not like I go out and get smashed or high or anything. For crying out loud, I—" He stopped suddenly, the anger seeming to drain out of him in an instant.

—_save the world every other week!_ Those were the words that had almost slipped out, that he only just refrained from screaming to the whole teacher-less classroom. Because _that_ he could not tell his friend—Dwight, the boy to whom he told everything… or that was what Dwight thought. Chris knew, though: there were things he could never tell his best friend.

"You what?" Dwight pressed, confusion creasing his brow.

Mind racing, Chris replied quickly, "My homework—I do all my homework." With a smirk he improvised, "Well, almost all. But if this is the way she wants to play it…" Unable to sit any longer with the pent-up nervous energy as a companion, he shoved himself out of the desk, posture rigid. On his face, a vengeful leer spread. "I can be the 'reckless, incorrigible teen who's on his way to Juvie.' Sure, if that's who she wants, no problem. Let's see how much she wants to help me _then_."

Eyebrows rising in concern, Dwight stared at his companion. Nervously playing with the dog tags around his neck, he cleared his throat. For a moment he seemed uncertain of how to proceed. At length he breathed out all at once, "Chris, she's gonna _murder_ you. You won't make it out of there alive!"

A grim smile replacing his previous sneer, the witch heaved a sigh. "Whatever, dude," he muttered, glowering down at his sweaty palms. Absentmindedly, he wiped them on his pants. "I just don't see how my life is any of her freakin' business."

Taking this as a dismissal of the conversation, Dwight reached by his feet. While one hand dug around in his backpack the other motioned for Chris to reclaim his seat. "Poker?" he suggested, extracting a deck of cards from an unzipped pocket.

Already accustomed to the strange and random contents of his companion's knapsack, Chris didn't bother asking why Dwight would carry around a deck of cards. Instead, he nodded and sat. "Texas Hold-'Em," he said. Nodding, Dwight began to deal.

* * *

_Earlier that morning…_

On Wednesday morning Jake awoke feeling surprisingly well-rested. _Oh, that's right,_ he reminded himself comfortably, eyes closed in content: _Mom came back all cooled off and went straight to bed._ What a nice change for the boy. With an almost imperceptible smile, he kicked back the covers and moved to slip off his bed. Suddenly, full in the face, a blast of pain hit him like a ton of bricks. Before he could bite his lip, a groan slipped past. Instantly, he clapped both hands over his mouth. If Mommy were currently sleeping off a hangover, it would not do to wake her.

Apparently, though, she was not asleep because Jake's bedroom door opened with a loud creak. Sucking in a breath, he held it as if physically clutching his lungs to keep them from releasing their air. When his mother stepped through the threshold, he noticed her concerned frown.

"Jake, honey, you okay?" she asked.

Fingers nervously picking at the bottom of his pajama shirt, the boy replied, "I don't feel too good." Without a doubt he knew he could not attend school today, not with a face that looked like it had been bashed in with a rock. After yesterday's incident with the vase, he knew his left cheek could not be a pretty sight to behold. People would wonder at it, which might get Mommy in trouble. That he could not allow to happen.

"Oh?" his mom questioned with genuine worry. "What is it that's bothering you? Your head? Your stomach? What is it?" Guilty eyes avoided his face, as if attempting to deny the existence of the bruises altogether. Jake let her go on pretending.

"My—uh—stomach," he lied. For good measure he wrapped both arms around his torso and let out a feeble moan. "Could I maybe stay home for the rest of the week?" Blinking innocently through his bangs, the nine-year-old watched his mother.

"Why don't we see how you're feeling tomorrow, hm?" she suggested, not unkindly. Motioning for him to climb back into bed, she offered a lopsided half-smile. "Go on and get some rest, Jake, all right? Maybe all you need is a few more hours of sleep." From the door she watched him clamor back into bed and drag the covers up to his chin. "Rest well." When she left, she closed the door behind her.

* * *

After forty-five minutes of a free period and another forty-five in his favorite class, the school finally released Chris from his prison. As the students filed out of the room, Mr. Randall called to their receding backs, "Don't forget to do the word problems on page sixty-seven for tomorrow." Following his students, Mr. Randall packed his notes into his briefcase and exited the room. Left behind the crowd, two boys packed away their books and notes and a leisurely pace. As they chatted, they started down the hall to their respective lockers.

"Did you see the movie last night?" Chris inquired when they stopped at his locker. Although he asked, he could already guess the answer. While Dwight had waited for months to see the movie, it lost its attraction with the prospect of nobody there to help him mock the actors and their parts. Chris knew Dwight long enough and well enough to know the answer before it came.

Casting a look at his best friend, Dwight snorted, "'Course not. How 'bout you—was your mom pissed about the whole detention thing?"

Selecting the text books he would need for homework, Chris purposely left his history text in his locker. Right now, he didn't really care if homework had been assigned; mostly he cared about annoying Ms. Gowell in any way possible. Noticing this, Dwight raised an eyebrow, though he wisely said nothing. Once Chris slammed his locker shut, they headed towards Dwight's in the next hallway over.

"Yeah, she was pretty pissed," Chris said as they went. "But whatever, she'll get over it as long as it doesn't happen again for a few weeks." In front of Dwight's locker, they stopped for the boy to retrieve his belongings. Afterwards, he shut it and casually spun the lock. Together the two headed out to the schoolyard.

Shading their eyes against the glare of sun, they stepped outside. With one arm blocking his face, Dwight pointed out, "But you got another detention today…"

"Yeah," Chris concurred with a shrug, "but it was an in-class detention. It doesn't bite into after-school time, so my mom won't find out about it. I'll just lay low for a few weeks until she forgets all about it." Pausing for a few moments, the teen's eyes swept the yard in search of a certain blonde. By the fence, Chris found his brother standing among a cluster of juniors. With a purposeful stare, Chris tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack, shot a "see ya tomorrow" over his shoulder, and crossed the grounds.

"Wyatt," he called when close enough to be heard. The older teen's head swung up, and Chris closed the distance between them. Eyeing the freshman for a moment, Wyatt's friends soon returned to their conversation, ignoring the brothers. "Can we go?"

With his own backpack slung over his shoulder, the blonde smirked. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, one hand reaching out to grab Chris's arm. Halfway turned around, Chris glared mutinously. "What's the rush?" Wyatt continued mockingly. "Yesterday I waited for like twenty minutes before your friend—what's his name?"

Dully, Chris supplied, "Dwight." How in the world had Wyatt lived with his brother for as long as he had without knowing Dwight's name? More likely he purposely pretended not to know because he knew it would irritate his brother. Yeah, that sounded more like the Wyatt Chris knew: obnoxious, not oblivious.

"Yeah, him. I waited for you for twenty minutes before he came by and told me you wouldn't be coming." Ignoring his brother's rant, Chris shrugged out of his grip and started back towards the building. After a moment of hesitance, the older Halliwell said a quick goodbye to his friends and trotted after his brother. "And _why_ weren't you coming?" he pressed, the self-satisfied grin expanding with every word. "Because you had detention."

"It wasn't my fault!" the brunette exploded. Cheeks flushed with irritation, he wheeled around to face his older sibling. "I'm telling you Ms. Gowell has it in for me. Every single thing I do somehow lands me in detention." As he ranted, the two walked around the school building until they were concealed from prying eyes.

"Ms. Gowell," Wyatt said thoughtfully. "That's the new history teacher, right?"

Rolling his eyes, Chris sighed, "She's not new; this is her second year teaching. Just because you didn't have her…" Exasperated, he trailed off. As they stepped behind a cluster of trees the two witchlighters often found useful, he continued, "I swear her mission in life is to ruin my year." With a disgruntled 'hmph,' he glowered at Wyatt.

"Hm," Wyatt said, looking pensive, "Maybe she and Prue should get together and plot." Immediately after his jibe, the older teen vanished in a whirlpool of orbs.

"Not funny!" Chris yelled at the fading dots before mimicking his brother and dematerializing. Oh, Wyatt would _so_ get it now.

Half a breath after Wyatt's orbs dissipated, Chris's began to twinkle in the foyer of the Halliwell manor. Once fully formed, the younger of the two shot his brother an annoyed scowl; it went ignored. Before the urge to childishly stick out his tongue could overpower his maturity, the fifteen-year-old stomped into the dining room. From the kitchen, dinner's aroma swept gallantly towards his nostrils. Hoping to scare his mother, the brunette crept quietly into the kitchen.

"It'll be ready in an hour," Piper said without looking up from the long tin pan sitting on the counter. From around her neck hung an apron long ago painted by three children aged two, four, and seven. Finger-painted in barely legible print were the words "we luv Momy."

"Damn, how'd you know?" Chris muttered in disbelief, moving to the table. Dumping his bag unceremoniously onto the tile floor, he collapsed into a pulled-out wooden chair. How was it that he could sneak up on even the most attuned warlock but his mom always knew he was coming from a mile away? For as long as he prided himself on being an expert predator, Piper seemed determined to knock him down a few notches.

_What does that do for my self-esteem?_ he grumbled to himself: _my own mother tries to get the better of me._

This time Piper did turn around, pausing only to fix him with a threatening stare. "Watch your language, mister."

With a half-contrite "Sorry," he dropped his head down onto his arms, which he folded on the table.

With her eyes focused on the spices she sprinkled one at a time over the pan, she asked her son, "So how was your day?"

In a falsely chipper tone, Chris answered, "Oh, it was just great! I absolutely love school; I only wish I could go every day of the year."

Snorting, Piper raised an eyebrow at the boy. He was way too cheeky for his own good. Dryly, she remarked, "I'm sure that can be arranged."

Shooting a hostile glance at his mom, the teen deadpanned, "You wouldn't dare."

"Mm-hm," was all Piper said with a non-committal smirk. Returning to her pan, she changed the subject. "Tell Wyatt we're having fish tonight."

At her command, Chris scrunched up his nose. "Fish?" he questioned in disgust, "But—"

"No 'but's," Piper interrupted smoothly, "and no faces either. I'm sure that at schools that run all year long, they never serve fish." As Piper knew it would, her concealed threat immediately shut Chris up. "Now," she repeated, "go tell Wyatt, please."

Without budging even an inch, Chris opened his mouth and hollered, "Wyatt! We're having fish tonight!" When he glanced over to find his mom's hands hugging her ears, he smirked, "Any school like that would throw me out in a day."

Fixing her son with a beady glare, she released one ear to point to the door. "Out," she ordered.

Calmly, he stood, snatching his knapsack off the floor. As he walked past his mother, he muttered, "Geez, I was just trying to help. If you don't want me to, next time just say so—"

"Out!"

Hurriedly, he orbed out of the kitchen. In his bedroom he reappeared just in time to hear Piper yell, "No orbing in the house!" As he always did under such circumstances, the cheeky teenager unapologetically called back, "Sorry!" After he dumped his bag in its usual corner, he collapsed onto his bed, grinning.

* * *

Since dinner, a couple of hours had passed. For his meal Chris had managed to choke down a few bites of fish. Thankfully, in order to provide her family with a well-balanced meal, Piper had also cut up a small salad. Eating mostly that, Chris had taken his fill without having to suffer through _too_ much fish—except for what his mom made him eat for the protein. (He had tried to throw the "I turned vegetarian" card. Unfortunately, Piper didn't buy it… probably because he had eaten burgers a couple of nights ago. She did not believe his "those weren't veggie burgers?" remark, either.)

Now, sitting at his desk in his room, Chris had nearly finished all his homework. Aside from history, which he planned to leave undone anyway just to spite Ms. Gowell, he had only half of his math homework left. He always left his favorite subject for last because to him it was the easiest to accomplish.

A light rap on the door stopped him. Without looking up he called, "Come in."

Entering the room, Piper softly closed the door behind her. As Chris watched, she crossed the room and seated herself on his bed. Without a word, she watched her son scribble an equation into his notebook. Hearing her sigh, the teen turned around fully in his chair, facing her. Acting this way was her own special way of telling her children, "We need to talk."

Watching her closely for any sort of emotion, Chris cautiously said, "What's up, Mom?"

For a few solemn moments she said nothing. At length, she remarked, "I got a call from your teacher a few minutes ago."

Dully, Chris asked, "Which one?"

"The one that gave you another detention," Piper supplied in a tone that suggested she knew he had already known the answer before asking the question.

"Yeah, well," Chris began self-righteously, "Ms. Gowell is out to get me; she doesn't want me to be able to graduate and all just because I don't like the subject she teaches."

Wryly, Piper remarked, "I think all those demon attacks have made you paranoid." On a more serious note she continued, "Twice in two days, Chris? I know you don't like history, but this is ridiculous. I thought your father and I raised you better than that."

He hated when she twisted things around like that. Blushing, he muttered, "You did, Mom; it's not that." At least when he did something wrong, he deserved a lecture. This time his only crime was agreeing to help a future whitelighter.

"Then what, Chris? What's been going on with you? These past couple of days, you've been acting really strange. We've barely seen you around here—"

Crossly, Chris protested, "I was at dinner tonight."

Pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids, Piper grew quiet. At length she sighed, "Yeah," as if there were something more she wished to say but did not know how to express it.

Uncomfortable, Chris squirmed in his chair. With just a few expressions, his mom could make him feel like a little kid all over again; he hated it. Feebly, he mumbled, "Mom, I'm sorry. It's just…"

When he trailed off, she asked, "Just what, Chris?" Though he heard no malice in her voice, the blatant disappointment was somehow that much worse. Wanting nothing more right now than for his mom to understand – if only just to ease his guilt – he felt his resolve crumble. Though he told himself repeatedly that he wanted to do this on his own—to keep his _privacy_ in regards to his charge, he could not stand that guilt-inducing look in his mom's eyes. How did she do that each and every time?

Slowly, eyes glued to the floor, he said, "Yesterday's detention wasn't my fault. Neither was today's."

Exasperated, his mother huffed, "Chris, we've been through this before: you need to learn to take responsibility for your—"

Before she could finish, he cut her off. "I know, Mom," he interrupted, running a frustrated hand through messy locks. "I know—be responsible, got it. But they really weren't my fault this time!"

"Oh no?" This time, arms folded across her chest, his motherlooked very much accusatory. "Whose, then? Your history teacher's?"

"No—the Elders."

Of all the answers she had half-expected, that one had not even made it to the top ten. Pausing briefly, she ordered in her no-nonsense tone, "Explain."

Taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the huge explosion, he began to talk. He told her of the past two days—of the Elders calling him out of class, of them assigning him a charge, of earlier that day when he had tried to check up on Jake. Purposely, though, he avoided describing Jake himself, avoided explaining his predicament, avoided the question of why he needed a whitelighter in the first place. _Let Mom speculate; it's not my story to tell._

By the end he expected Piper to go off the deep end or at the very least ground him into the next century. While she did look royally peeved, she directed her scowl towards the ceiling rather than her son. A good sign if he had to figure. Hands on hips, she said resolutely, "Well, we're just going to have to orb the Elders' butts back here and get them to reassign this guy to someone else—"

Horrified, Chris jumped up from his chair. "Mom, no!" he cried, "You can't! I just started getting somewhere with him… sort of. If I leave now, he'll never trust another whitelighter as long as he lives!" A bit dramatic maybe, but he needed his mother to understand. This was not just some silly phase of his; this was a _charge_, someone he could actually _help_ as long as he did his job right.

At first, as Chris held his breath, Piper said nothing, just raised a single eyebrow and pursed her lips. At length she demanded, "You _want_ a charge?"

Conveniently forgetting that at one point he had argued her very same point, he shrugged. "Well, yeah… I guess… I mean the Elders"—he ignored whatever Piper grumbled under her breath at the mention of Their Royal Bigheads—"think I'm the best one for this job."

Through narrowed eyes, Piper pressed, "You know this isn't like owning a dog or something. This is a human being, Chris. Living, breathing, thinking, feeling… If you screw up even _once_, this guy could die."

Sufficiently knocked down a few pegs, Chris muttered dryly, "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom."

Rolling her eyes, Piper countered frankly, "You know what I mean, Chris. This is serious business you're dealing with here. People die. And what happens if he gets sick or something and then dies after you two have gotten really close. Chris, that kind of grief…"

To the forefront of her mind rushed memories of innocents she and her sisters had lost over the years. Witches, mortals, cops—even those who had suspected them. Though frustrated at times, the sisters never wished harm upon them. Those weren't even people she knew for extended periods of time, people to whom she had grown close. If Chris did his job right, he would grow to care very deeply for his charge. As a future whitelighter, Jake was destined to die. Perhaps not soon but eventually. When that inevitable day arrived, the day he lost Jake… How could Piper knowingly let her little boy walk into certain pain? For all his fifteen years, to her he was still just a baby.

In the very first years with her powers, she remembered all too well the pain she endured. In the beginning, the first—and by no means last—big loss she suffered was Andy Trudeau, a man she and her sistershad known since infancy, a man who had been the brother she never had.

Though he hid it well, inside, Piper knew, Chris was a sensitive boy. He would bond quickly with his charge, build a close relationship. What if it became more than the relationship of a whitelighter to his charge, as often it did? What if he became a confidante, a close friend the way Leo had once become for the Halliwell sisters? During the aftermath of her older sister's death, Piper and Phoebe had it rough. Even preoccupied with her own grief, though, Piper saw how impossibly Leo dealt with his own sorrow. He tried to stay strong for his two living charges, for his wife; but the fact that he failed to save a loved one hit him hard. Losing a charge—it rarely got much worse than that.

In a desperate tone Chris tugged his mother's consciousness back to the present. "I've protected Innocents before, haven't I? It's the same thing, except more of a long-term arrangement. I can keep him safe; nothing's going to happen to him." Pleading, he concluded, "Mom, I can do this. Let me see this thing through."

Though reluctant, Piper knew she could not protect her children from heartbreak forever. Eventually, she would have to let them face the big, bad world—let them love, let them lose. Despite her hesitance, she conceded—on conditions. Rapidly, she began to tick the stipulations off on her fingers. "No more cutting classes for any reason whatsoever. If your grades start to drop, this whole thing is over. I'll change my mind in a heartbeat. Don't test me—I'll do it."

With a snort Chris retorted, "I know you will."

Smoothly, the long-time mother added, "And if there's any cheek from you, mister…" Threateningly, she let herself trail off. "So watch it, kiddo."

"Will do," he exclaimed, and saluted. Glad to have been given this opportunity, he honestly would have readily accepted almost anything. For a moment he pondered over exactly what he was agreeing to do: if he broke any of his mom's rules even once, she would snatch Jake from him in the blink of an eye. He could not let his work suffer, could not cut even one class—

"Wait," he said, looking up. At the door with one hand already on the knob, Piper turned around to face her boy. "If he calls me in the middle of class," he protested, "I have to be able to orb to him." When Piper opened her mouth to argue, he rushed to explain: "A charge's call trumps anything else, right?" Smirking, he challenged, "Ask Dad; I'm sure he'd say the same."

Scowling – after all, he was correct – she determined, "Fine, if he calls you. But one more phone call from a teacher and I am calling the Elders." As she closed the door behind her, she heard her mutter, "Idiot Elders think they can hire a fifteen-year-old boy for their dirty work… Child Labor Laws…" As she stormed down the hallway, her voice fading into nonexistence, Chris could not help but smile.

* * *

**Reviews are like gold, spun from thread. I may be shallow, but would you really deny me the only gold I can possibly attain when fanfiction is free writing? To be serious for a moment, though, if I worked tirelessly to produce something for your viewing pleasure, it is really fair to leave me without a response? Is that the thanks any writer deserves?**

* * *

**Replies to anonymous reviews:**

brez - I am glad you liked it and reviewed. I am curious: what in specific do you like about the story? What don't you like? There must be something.

:-) - _laughs._ I really liked the name you signed with. A smiley face: very cute. _grin_. Oh, how it pains me that you skipped over my introduction in chapter one. That was some of my best work. _wink._ Seriously, though, I think you should read it. My own personal opinion, anyway. Even if you do not, I thank you for joining the story. Yes, this is a revamped version of a story I began to write quite a while ago.

firepony16 - Thank you. I take great pains to add imagery to my stories because there was a time when I wrote completely without detail, much like many writers here on fanfiction. No offense intended. It is just a fact - novices in all areas tend to lack imagery. Thankfully, while still a novice myself, I have begun to add more detail to my writing. With even more practice, I hope that I will continue to do so.

bahzad - As a teenage boy, Chris will not sit by so docilely and happily accept a teacher's attempt to help him. No, as a teenager, he will throw aside _anyone_'s offer of assistance and fully believe he can accomplish anything and everything without any help at all. Jake may not have been harmed in the last chapter, but don't expect that to go on forever. He is a victim of abuse, and I do not plan to soften the "facts" because they are difficult to read. In fact, the difficulty is just the point: this is a statement against abuse. It is _not _acceptable in any way, shape or form!


	6. 05 Of Life and Lessons

**-Of Life and Lessons-**

"_For the friendship of two, the patience of one is required." –Indian proverb_

* * *

(year: 1997)

From the room across the hall, Carmen heard crashes, shouting, and gunshots. Closing her second grade workbook, she slid off of the chair in front of her plain, wooden desk (Mommy said they couldn't afford a pink, flowery one like Allison Stanton had). Eagerly leaving her room, she crossed the hall. Despite the large, black sign with a white skull and the words "_Enter at your own peril_" written in what looked like drops of blood, she had no fear of knocking on her brother's door.

When she heard a distracted "Come in," Carmen pushed open the door and stepped inside. As she had expected, she found her older brother staring at the computer screen on his desk. Although loose pages of loose-leaf paper were strewn across his unmade bed, he ignored them in favor of the computer game to which he now gave his undivided attention

"Whachya doin', Michael?" came the innocent query of an eight-year-old sister. Hand still on the doorknob, she watched the younger of her two brothers with intense interest.

Without glancing up, Michael dully replied, "Homework." Within the game, another gunshot cracked, making Carmen jump in surprise. That was _loud_.

Tilting her head to one side, she remarked innocently, "It doesn't _look_ like homework."

Finally, Michael seemed to take notice of his sister. Pausing his game, he rolled his chair backwards until he sat facing the little girl. While their older brother shared almost no traits with either of his siblings, Carmen and Michael seemed to inherit many of the same genes. Where Jordan had fast become quite the handsome young man, Michael would forever remain his thin, lanky self. Though personally Carmen found her second brother to be handsome in his own right (and would even marry him if they hadn't been born related, she had once decided), she knew better than to say so. No, he very easily took offense when discussing his appearance; Carmen had learnt not to bring it up at all. Best let sleeping dogs lie, as Daddy would say. Whatever that meant.

Then there were his eyes—the same goldish brownish as her own. Often, when they sat on her bed to chat (his was always too messy for sitting on), she took pleasure in getting lost in his eyes. Sometimes, she would remove his glasses and sit with her face hanging mere inches from his. From there she could easily see a little girl staring back at her. Jordan's hazel eyes, like her father's, just couldn't reflect her the same way; and Mommy would _never_ let her do something like that. But Michael never minded when she did it. Well, almost never anyway.

"Close the door; close the door," he ushered quickly, waving at her to do as he instructed. Looking uneasy, he pressed his lips together until Carmen did as she was told, closing his bedroom door as quietly as she could.

As she did so, she asked, "How come?"

Only once the door was firmly shut did Michael reply, "Because I'm supposed to be working on my homework." Wheeling himself back towards his computer, he mumbled, "Mommy and Daddy would kill me if they knew, so you can't tell them that I'm not. Got it, Carmen?"

Obediently, Carmen answered, "Got it." Cheekily, she saluted. As he resumed his computer game, she wandered over to his bed. As she suspected, the loose papers had been taken out to work on homework. Most were blank.

"You know," she commented lightly, "you should prob'ly finish your homework before you go playing games or anything like that."

With a scowl shot over his shoulder, Michael muttered, "What are you, my mother?" When Carmen continued to fix him with an intense stare, he sighed and paused his game again. "It's easy stuff, Carmen."

"Nuh-uh," the girl contradicted with all the righteousness an eight-year-old could muster. "Seventh grade is _hard_."

"Nuh-uh," her brother mimicked, rolling his eyes. "It's a total cake-walk." Making a face at her, he demanded, "What would you know about seventh grade anyway? You've never been there. Just you wait and see; you'll breeze right through it. You're pretty smart."

Pleased, Carmen colored at the compliment. From experience she knew if she were to mention it, though, Michael would only brush her thanks away. Instead, she pretended to ignore it and tilted her head slightly, watching her brother's computer turn on its side in her vision. "Still," she sighed at length, lips twisting together in an imitation of their mother. "You should finish your homework first, Michael."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he smirked. Immediately disregarding her words, he asked, "You want to play two-player?" Vaguely, he motioned to his screen, where the word _PAUSE_ blinked on and off every couple of seconds. Clearly visible on the screen was a cartoon man whose muscles bulged in the green army suit he wore. Strapped to his side, three AK-47s waited, ready for use. Meanwhile, in his hands one was already propped up and aimed. As he ducked behind an ominous-looking boulder, bullets froze in midair where they had whizzed by him. From this perspective, the enemies were able to keep out of sight.

Uncomprehending, Carmen wondered what in the world Michael found so fascinating about a shooting game. Who wanted to get attacked? "No thanks," she said, shaking her head in as much a negation as bewilderment. "That's stuff's _creepy._"

While Michael shrugged and returned to his "creepy" game, the girl stepped back out of the room and, like the studious child she was, went back to her homework.

* * *

(Thursday, October 3, 2019)

Having gone to sleep early that night, Chris woke up easily the next morning. In fact, he even had time for a morning shower, which he preferred to one taken in the afternoon. At 7:30 he stepped out of the tub dripping with water. Shaking droplets from his hair, he toweled himself dry and got dressed. Downstairs, as usual, Prue was already eating breakfast in the kitchen. To Chris's surprise, she wasn't the only one; Leo was also sitting at the table, newspaper in hand as she munched on a toasted bagel smeared with butter. Usually, by the time Chris got downstairs, Leo had already left for Magic School with Aunt Paige.

Somewhat dazed, the teen said, "Hey, Dad."

Glancing up briefly, Leo smiled. "Good morning, sunshine," he quipped. "Aren't you up a bit early?"

Rolling his eyes, Chris snatched up his father's coffee mug and took a large swallow. "Very funny," he retorted as he replaced it on the table. "I'm just cracking up."

"Mm-hm," Leo murmured, "I'm sure you are." Chris ignored the added comment of, "Aren't you a bit young to need coffee in the morning?" After all, he was _fifteen_ and by no means still a child. At least that was what he convinced himself.

After pouring himself a bowl of cereal, the boy flopped down across from his sister. Around a mouthful of dry bits (he hated cereal with milk), he asked, "Where's Aunt Paige? Doesn't she usually come before now?"

Directing a frown at his son, the man reprimanded, "Don't talk with your mouth full, Chris." When Prue snickered, Chris flicked a piece of cereal at her. "Cut it out, you two," Leo warned. In answer to Chris's query, he said, "She called to say she'd be a bit late. Bobby threw up last night, but Uncle Henry has to work—nobody to watch him at home." Before Chris could offer himself to the cause, Leo continued, "She's going to let Bobby sleep in her office, but she's got to get him ready first. She'll be"—at that moment Wyatt stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the room—"here at around 7:45."

Through a yawn Wyatt asked, "Who's coming at 7:45—Aunt Paige?" Leo nodded. Barely cracking open his eyes, the young man collapsed into a chair and, to all appearances, promptly fell back to sleep.

A few minutes after Leo finally left with Paige and a slumbering Bobby on her shoulder, Piper entered the kitchen in shock. "What are you boys still doing here?" she shrieked, simultaneously ushering them towards the front door. "You're going to miss your bus. Go, go, go!"

In a hurry – more to get out of Piper's way than to get to the bus on time – the two brothers left the manor.

* * *

When Chris got off the bus, a familiar face sidled up beside him. For a little while they walked in silence together. Since the bell had not yet rung, the hallway was relatively empty. The two walked through the halls, weaving around the odd stray backpack. Finally, as they turned another corner, Dwight stated flatly, "She found out, didn't she?"

Snorting to himself, Chris responded, "Of course she did; my mom finds out practically _everything._" At his locker, the boy fished his biology text out from beneath a whole mess of books and loose papers.

"Well?" Eagerly, Dwight elbowed Chris for an elaboration. "What'd she do? Are you grounded forever?"

"Actually," Chris calmly corrected, "no. I'm not." He began to walk away. Pausing for a moment, he tossed over his shoulder, "See you next period." He and Dwight did not share their biology class, one of the few things they did not do together.

Just as the first bell rang, Chris slid into his seat. One eyebrow raised, Mr. Garcia remarked, "Cutting it a bit close, don't you think, Mr. Halliwell?"

Though he thought, _I made it, didn't I?, _Chris did not voice the comment. Instead he forced an insincere apology through clenched teeth.

* * *

The next period came rather quickly, though Chris figured that happened only because he wished it would not. On Thursdays, following first period came history. If he wanted to please his mom, he would have to play "interested schoolboy" from now until God knew when. Even if he knew it would probably help his cause, he simply could not bring himself to apologize to Ms. Gowell. At the very least, though, he would try to pay attention. Maybe, if he were able, he could also take a few notes. As unappetizing as the prospect sounded, Piper had not really given him much leeway on the matter.

_Well,_ he thought, reluctantly trudging towards the classroom; _sacrifices must be made._

Early to class, Chris mustered up the bravery and stepped into the nearly empty room. As he walked towards his seat, he pretended not to notice Ms. Gowell's eyes glued to the back of his head. For that he could not very well blame her; this was by no means a common occurrence, after all. The entire time neither student nor teacher spoke a word to the other. Chris had hoped Dwight would come so he would not feel quite so awkward, but Dwight ended up coming two and a half minutes late to class—no doubt waiting for Chris. _Ah, the irony,_ Chris thought grimly. When he entered the room, Chris tried to shoot him a look of apology; but Dwight didn't notice.

Paying rapt attention, Chris fervently copied down every word out of Ms. Gowell's mouth. Pages and pages in his once-pristine notebook filled with dates, names, and places. By the end of the period, he shook out his hand, wincing as it cramped in pain.

Standing up, he stretched his limbs and then collected his possessions. As he began stuffing everything into his bag, he felt someone come up behind his shoulder. Years of demonic attacks had him stiffen before he could think, but after a couple of seconds he relaxed—it was only Dwight.

In a low voice his companion asked, "You ready for math?"

Snorting loudly, Chris jammed his bag onto his shoulder and muttered, "Let's just get out of here already."

Chuckling, Dwight started towards the door. Behind him, head ducked so as not to attract Ms. Gowell's attention, Chris followed in a shuffle. On the way he planned to explain to Dwight the new rules his mom had set for him—as much as he could without revealing too much, anyway. Once he clarified the issue, he knew Dwight would understand. After all, that was what best friends did, especially _his_ best friend.

Just as Dwight lifted his foot to step through the threshold, a voice called them back. "Mr. Halliwell, a word?"

Inwardly, the teen cursed. This close to freedom, he was sucked back inside the torture chambers of American history. What could he have possibly done wrong this time? He had been so careful to act the exemplary student so that she could find no fault in him. Obviously, though, she disagreed. Perhaps he was correct in his original sentiment after all; perhaps she wanted to torture him with continual detentions.

"Keep moving, Mr. Ryder." Glancing back, Chris realized Dwight had stopped, too. Dryly, Ms. Gowell remarked, "I'll return him relatively whole." Somehow—Chris just could not imagine _why_—Dwight did not seem too comforted by her reassurances. Even so, after casting an apologetic look towards Chris, he left the room.

Right now Chris wanted to tear his notebook from his bag and shove it into her face. _"I paid attention,"_ he wanted to tell her. _"I took notes, see? You can't penalize me for listening in class."_ Standing rigidly, he fought the urge and instead watched her through wary eyes.

To his surprise, instead of admonishing him, Ms. Gowell opened her mouth and said, "I liked the change in you."

Stunned at being so far off the mark, his defenses dropped for a couple of seconds. Dumbly, he said, "Huh?"

Raising an eyebrow (it was not often one caught Chris Halliwell unawares; she wanted to savor the moment), Marcy concealed a smile. At length, she clarified, "Today. I didn't have to stop class for you once." Wow, was that some sort of backhanded insult?—because it certainly did not sound very complimentary. "Not that I'm complaining but what's with the change?"

Though he just wanted to get out and find Dwight before the next period began, he knew that acting polite was part and parcel of this arrangement. Swallowing his sarcasm, he offered what he hoped looked like some semblance of a smile (but what felt a whole lot like a grimace). With a casual shrug, he smirked, "I had a change of heart."

Disbelieving, Marcy hesitated. Not wanting to insult Chris, she tried to sound slightly more trusting when she asked, "Really?"

"No," he chuckled almost grimly, "not really. My mom threatened me if I didn't stop earning her calls from my teachers—said the phone bill skyrocketed since summer ended couple months ago."

Now _that_ Marcy believed. Offering Chris a smile, which seemed to make the teen more uncomfortable as opposed to less, she encouraged, "Well, whatever it is really helped; keep up the good work. I think it's a wonderful improvement."

When she turned around to face the supplies on her desk, she expected him to leave. Instead, after a few seconds she heard him say, "I don't." Glancing at him over her shoulder, she caught his dry smile. "It's a pain to have to pay attention during class—no fun."

Laughing quietly, Ms. Gowell replied, "Maybe so but it suits you." This time Chris did turn towards the door. Hand outstretched to grasp the doorknob, he stopped to hear her ask, "Does this mean I won't be sending you to detention for a while?"

Though she meant it rhetorically he was sure, Chris took great pleasure in remarking enigmatically, "Maybe. We'll see."

* * *

As Mr. Randall droned on at the board, Chris found himself daydreaming in his favorite subject. After paying such rapt attention during history, his brain insisted on taking a break; so Chris found it more and more difficult to pay attention to his notes. In his mind he kept running through what he would say when he met Jake again this afternoon. Since when he visited yesterday Jake was sleeping, Chris worried the boy would think his "angel" had abandoned him. Last night he had contemplated orbing back, but at that point he had not wanted his parents to grow suspicious. By now, of course, his mom had already squeezed out of him the information about his encounter with the Elder. Piper had a way of doing that.

Absentmindedly, Chris swirled his pencil around on his paper, drawing circles over his notes. As he did this, he contemplated his predicament. How long would this go on? How long would his mom compel him to act the good little teenage witch for the public? As much as he wanted to keep his charge, he knew he could not keep up this charade indefinitely.

"Well…?"

Startled by the amused voice from just behind his left ear, Chris whipped his head around to find a smirking Mr. Randall watching him. With knowing, twinkling eyes, the math teacher began to chuckle quietly.

Forcing himself to remain casual, Chris glanced around to see the other students' eyes transfixed solely on him. Ah, so he was meant to answer a question, then. Sounding as laidback of possible, the witchlighter flippantly remarked, "I was thinking so hard about the answer that I forgot the question." Cheekily, he turned halfway around in his seat to face his teacher and then gave a deliberate smirk.

Despite himself, Mr. Randall smiled. With one eyebrow raised, he countered, "The problem is on the board, Chris." When he nodded towards the computerized board that had been installed in each math classroom years ago, Chris, following his gaze, blushed. Right there, in Mr. Randall's big, loopy handwriting, the equation was written out on the board. "Try to keep your mind out of the clouds and into the numbers, eh, Chris?" the man quipped. Stepping past the grinning student, he looked across the room. "Matt, the answer?"

From a few rows over, Matt Waters obediently responded, "Seven times the square root of two?"

"Seven root two, that's right. Now"—he moved back to the board, tapping his stylus against it—"if I changed this number here to a negative…"

* * *

At 3:15 the bell rang. By 3:17 Chris had already concealed himself behind the school building, ready to orb. On his way there Dwight had stopped him, but Chris gave him some excuse about why he could not talk now. Promising to call in the evening, he left Dwight standing alone in the yard. Without bothering to wait for Wyatt, he orbed to his bedroom and dropped his knapsack on the floor. On a stray piece of paper he found conveniently located on his desk, he scribbled, _'Gone. BB soon.'_

Leaving that on his desk for his mother to see, he orbed directly to Jake's backyard. As he trekked around to the front door, he stopped short and stared at the scene of a young boy Jake's age standing at the door. Behind him, parked at the curb, a car waited.

Slowly, Chris came forward, stopping in front of the kid, who shaded his eyes and nervously looked up. Shifting from one foot to the other, the kid gripped his backpack tightly.

Cheerfully, Chris greeted him. "Hello. Can I help you?"

In a rush the boy's words poured from his mouth. "I'm bringing over Jake's homework for today."

Biting back a chuckle at the boy's expense (he doubted that would go over well with the child's parents), Chris asked, "What, he didn't go to school again?" Concerned, he frowned. When the kid nodded, he said, "Oh. All right…"

Seeming to gather his courage, the boy finally told Chris, "Nobody's opening the door…" as if he expected the teen to do something about it himself.

Casting a quick glance towards the kid's father sitting in the car, he suggested, "Why don't you give it to me? I'm his…" Searching his brain for a logical relationship that would not arouse suspicion, he finally settled on "cousin." Smoothly, he continued, "I'm actually going in right now." He need not have bothered making up the elaborate tale; the kid had already unzipped his bag and begun to rummage through it. At length, he tugged out a packet of wrinkled papers. On top someone—a teacher based on the neatness of the handwriting—had stuck a post-it in the corner. In tight, boxy letters the person had written a checklist of the homework assigned for that day. A quick "feel better" was added to the bottom of it, followed by the signature of "Mrs. Apostle."

As the boy scampered back to his car, Chris turned towards the front door. Without looking he knew the father was still watching him. If he just stood there, he knew the man would grow suspicious. Casually, the teen reached for the doorknob, simultaneously and unobtrusively swishing his fingers to the right. With a reverberating _'click,'_ the door unlocked. Calmly, he pushed it open and stepped inside. As he closed the door behind him, he saw the car drive away.

This time he found Jake's room quickly. Peeking inside, he rapped lightly on the open door. When Jake, who sat in the middle of his floor, looked up to identify the source of the sound, Chris smiled.

"Hey, Jake," he greeted. "How are you? Last I saw you, you were asleep."

Eyes wide, Jake hopped to his feet. In his hands and spread across the floor were various action figures. Faded from a couple of days of healing, the boy's cheek had turned a sickly-looking yellow, though at least the swelling had receded. Noticing this almost immediately, Chris clenched his teeth.

Ignorant of Chris's anger, the boy asked in surprise, "You came yesterday?"

Once Chris was certain he had himself under control, he nodded, "Yep. Your mom said you weren't feeling so well… I guess you weren't feeling much better today if you missed school again."

Eyes wide, the boy whispered in awe, "How'd you know I stayed home today?"

Moving towards Jake and closing the door behind him, Chris cryptically responded, "I'm your guardian angel; it's my job to know what's going on in your life. Here—" He handed Jake the packet of assignments. "Your friend brought home your homework…" Staring at the boy, he raised an eyebrow. "Said nobody answered the door when he knocked… doesn't look like you were sleeping."

Of their own volition Jake's eyes strayed towards his neatly-made bed. Chris followed his gaze and then sighed.

Kneeling in front of the boy, he asked almost hesitantly, "Jake?" Though the nine-year-old refused to meet his gaze, Chris pressed further. "Why didn't you want to open the door for him?"

Tears leaked into Jake's golden brown eyes, though they did not fall. When Chris reached out to draw him forward, a gasp of surprise slipped past the child's lips. Instantly, he recoiled, pressing backwards away from Chris's hand. As if afraid to remain silent now, he said in a strained whisper, "I didn't wanna see him." Swallowing hard, he forced himself to meet the angel's eyes. When he blinked, his eyelashes came away wet from his cheeks.

_Just focus on his eyes,_ he told himself firmly. _Green eyes, bright green eyes, just focus on them…_

Suspiciously, Chris's eyes narrowed. "You didn't want to see him, or you didn't want _him_ to see _you_?"

Jake looked away. Staring at the floor, he mumbled, "I have to do my homework." Finally accepting the proffered pile of papers, he shuffled to his desk and sat down.

With a frustrated sigh that made Jake inwardly wince, Chris yielded. "Right. Homework." Running a hand through his hair, he said, "Well… I guess I'll… come back tomorrow to see how you're feeling. Maybe over the weekend we can, you know, play some fun games—action figures or something." With Jake sitting so rigidly in his chair, obviously tense, Chris realized he should probably leave. Right now he was getting nowhere anyway. Feigning calmness, he said casually, "So anyway, I'll see you tomorrow."

When Jake said nothing, Chris orbed home without another word. In the silence that followed, the nine-year-old boy softly whispered in a voice thick with remorse, "Bye…"

* * *

Sitting over a biology assignment, Chris clenched his teeth. Without actually seeing the questions, he stared at the text book. Instead, he saw Jake recoiling from his hand. How could he help a boy who didn't even trust him? Maybe he should tell the Elders to reassign Jake to a more experienced whitelighter. Obviously, Chris was not very qualified for the job. Though he had fast grown attached to the child, apparently Jake did not share the sentiment. More important than what Chris wanted was what Jake _needed_. If he could not build a bond, then Chris would have to get him reassigned to someone—

From across the room came a sharp rap on the door, followed by, "Chris?"

Refocusing his eyes on the text book, he said, "You can come in, Dad." When the door creaked open, he closed his book (it was not as if he were getting anywhere with it anyway) and turned around to acknowledge his father.

"How're you doing, kiddo?" Leo asked, stopping before his son.

"Fine," Chris muttered, though far from it. Sighing heavily, he admitted, "Kinda frustrated."

With a sympathetic nod, Leo guessed, "From your charge?"

Glancing at his dad through suspicious eyes, the teen accused, "Mom told you."

Chuckling, Leo placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Did you not want her to?" he asked, knowing full well Chris's answer.

Reluctantly, Chris admitted, "No." As an afterthought he added, "But I didn't want her to know in the first place. She just sort of… you know… got it out of me." The boy looked annoyed at himself for having let her drag it out of him. Leo almost chuckled; how long would it take Chris to realize Piper would _always_ be able to get answers out of her children?

"Yeah, she does that." As he spoke, Leo moved to sit down on the bed. Looking back at Chris, he suggested, "Maybe I can help you. I was a whitelighter a long time ago, but I'm pretty sure I still remember the tricks of the trade."

Chris groaned at the trite expression. "No offense, Dad," he remarked dryly, "but things have changed since your time. I don't think you can help me."

Far from feeling insulted, Leo only smirked. "Chris, the Elders are anything if not set in their ways; the last time things changed, it was because Titans wiped out more than half of their ranks. Until the next epic battle, I highly doubt anything's going to change again." Even so, unperturbed, he stood and glided towards the door.

With an inward groan, Chris called, "Dad." Patiently, Leo turned. Though he hated to admit it, Chris knew his father was right. Blushing, the teen mumbled, "What were you going to say?"

"What, my old-timer experience may be helpful after all? Well, lucky me." Closing the door, he stepped back into the room.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Chris muttered, even as he joined his dad on the bed. "So what's this great advice you have for me?"

Without speaking Leo made himself comfortable on his son's bed. Finally, once Chris began to think his father would not answer at all—just to spite him, maybe make him beg for it—he said, "For you being a whitelighter will be more difficult than most."

"Hey!" Chris interjected, but Leo held up a single hand for time to explain.

"Let me finish," he said. When Chris quieted, albeit reluctantly, the former Elder continued, "For you none of this comes naturally. Not only are you only _half-_whitelighter; you have other things on your mind." Seeing Chris scowl crossly, he rushed to assure, "Don't worry, it's not a bad thing—it may even be expected. Normally, a whitelighter is… well…" With a raised eyebrow, he stated bluntly, "Dead. As whitelighters, all they have to worry about are their charges… and, if they're so inclined, the rules they're supposed to follow." After chuckling lightly at his own joke, he continued, "_You_ have a life. Literally. You have to worry about your charges—"

"Charge," Chris corrected. "I have only one."

One eyebrow raised, Leo countered, "I was an Elder for a couple of years, Chris, and a whitelighter for much longer than that; I know what I'm talking about. Just wait. If you do well with this one, they'll be quick to give you another few." Ignoring his son's muttered, "Great," he repeated, "You have to worry about charges, your witchcraft, school… It's not the same; you're bound to get frustrated."

Pensively, Chris remarked, "No, that's not why I'm frustrated. I'm keeping up with life just fine. It's that…" With a sigh he ran a heavy hand through his hair. "He's just so… _closed_. It's like he's scared of me or something, but I keep telling him there's nothing to worry about!"

Leo couldn't help but chuckle in surprise. "_That's_ what's bothering you?"

"Well, yeah." In annoyance Chris glowered at his dad. "I've been there three times already, twice that I've spoken to him. Things should be moving forward, but they're just not. It's so…" Scowling, Chris cut himself off and demanded of his father, "_What_ is so funny?"

It took Leo two failed attempts before he could answer without falling into helpless laughter. Finally, he got out, "Chris… this stuff takes time—no, don't interrupt yet. Three days is not time. He's got an _angel_ to watch over him, Chris; that kind of adjusting takes more than three days." When Chris still didn't look convinced, Leo pressed, "If in three _weeks_ you see no change in your relationship, _then_ you can start doubting your abilities."

"But, Dad," Chris pointed out, "This sort of thing isn't supposed to take this long."

Raising an eyebrow, Leo sighed in realization. "Chris," he said at length, "how long did it take you and Dwight to become friends?"

Though surprised at the sudden change in subject, Chris wasted no time in answering, "About fifteen minutes."

"And some of your other friends?" Leo continued.

"I don't know," Chris shrugged impatiently. "Not much. What's this got to do with anything?"

"That's the problem, Chris," Leo explained to his impulsive son. "You make friends quickly and easily, which is a wonderful trait; but obviously your charge isn't like that. If you want him to warm up to you, it has to happen on his terms, not on yours. Do you understand? Figure out _why_ he is slow to trust and work from there."

Thoughtfully, Chris paused, staring at the wall as he pictured his charge. Blond hair, brown eyes, skinny arms and legs… a young, abused child… While Chris easily understood why Jake would hate his mom—and maybe even all women and mother-type figures as a general rule—the teen just could not figure out why this mistrust extended to himself? Not only that, though he _expected_ Jake to loathe his mother, the boy did not. His actions implied that he even _loved_ his mother, and yet he feared his guardian angel. Besides, Chris had promised not to hurt Jake! Wasn't that enough?

Vaguely, he heard his dad's voice say, "I'll leave you to think on it. 'Night, buddy."

As Leo left the room, Chris absentmindedly called, "'Night…" still deep in thought.

* * *

**To me reviews are... All right, I am not in a very poetic mood right now. Just remember, I have worked so hard to present a satisfactory chapter. Is it really fair that in return I should not get a review from anyone who reads it? Not just a "nice chappie," which -- by the way -- is completely useless, folks. I mean a real review with your actual thoughts. (For a lovely example, check out 's reviews or, as another good example, Artsfan. I am not saying you have to write the way they do because that takes true patience and talent that few have. But... at least your thoughts...) Speaking of , everyone _must_ check out her amazing Harry Potter/Charmed crossover, _Brewing Storms and Burning Bridges_. It is outstanding!**

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**Replies to anonymous reviews:**

firepony16 - I am the same way. After a few months, I am no longer satisfied with what I have written and, to fix that niggling feeling, have to go back and rewrite the entire story. It drives my teacher up a wall because she insists I just _sit down and finish something_. I finally did -- as a favor to her after everything she has done for me. _laughs_ Why don't you register on this site, I wonder?

pinkphoenix1985 - I know you are not normally an anonymous reviewer, but I figured I would respond this way because you wrote an anonymous review this time (and I am much too lazy to send a PM). I agree -- it is heartbreaking when a child cannot trust the smile of his mother to have no ulterior motive. It is something many children in real life must face, unfortunately.

bahzad - As always, I loved to receive your review! You are the happy medium that everyone should strive to achieve. I know it is nigh impossible for the average person to write such a detailed review as and Artsfan write, and it would be unreasonable for me to ask that of everyone. Your reviews are exactly what I wish people would strive for! Not because I am selfish and need the frequent stroke of my ego (although, hey, who doesn't enjoy that once in a blue moon?) but because I think _every_ writer deserves that! People should take a page out of your book and learn from your reviews.

kennyk12 - I know you were not anonymous, but as I said to pinkphoenix1985 I am much too lazy to respond at the moment. Profuse apologies for my laziness. I hope you take no offense from it. _blush_ Your compliments are lovely; thank you so much for saying such wonderful things about this story! If you want a story that is good and hard to come by, though, you should check out 's crossover. I am telling you, her work is absolute _gold_. I am envious of her raw talent. You need not worry because there will be many more Jake/Chris interactions to come. The story is first and foremost about Chris and secondly about his charge. Jake is more of the subplot, but since we do not learn more of the big plot until later on he will get quite a bit of attention. Funny, I don't have a hatred for the Elders. I believe... that people hate them only because they were taught to hate them. If you think about it, it is illogical to believe that they are evil when, in actuality, they are the paragons of good. Even Gideon -- what he did was awful, of course; but what did he repeat over and over? What he did was all for the Greater Good. He went about it poorly, but his motives were clear. None could fault him for that. He wanted to protect the world from a future evil that would destroy everything!


	7. 06 Of Arguments and Acquaintances

**-Of Arguments and Acquaintances-**

"_If you study to remember, you'll forget; but if you study to understand, you'll remember."_

* * *

(year: 1995)

From the bathroom came thef sound of running water. It had been on for a couple of minutes already, which made the father-of-three somewhat concerned. Knocking lightly, he said, "Car-Car? Is that you in there?"

Over the sound the six-year-old called, "Yeah, Daddy, I'm in here!" After a couple of seconds of relative quiet with only the background noise of the sink, Carmen shut off the water and hopped off of the toilet. Swinging the door open, she said, "Come in, Daddy." When he entered, he found the sink filled to the brim with bubbly soap water. Before he could question this, Carmen explained, "I'm just giving Pug a bath." Leaning in as if to divulge a secret, she whispered to her dad, "Pug smells yucky."

Nervously, her father peered into the sink but could see nothing through the thickness of bubbles. "Uh… Pug's not… uh… _in_ there right now, is he?"

"Not yet," Carmen replied, oblivious to her daddy's sigh of relief. From beside the toilet seat, the girl lifted a small, shelled creature that squirmed in her grasp as if knowing the fate that lay in store. Four thick, stubby feet and a stout head flailed back and forth. Revealing two missing teeth in her bright smile, Carmen held the frantic turtle over the sink, loosening her fingers to drop him inside.

"Wait, Carmen, honey," her father said quickly, stepping forward and securing his hands around the unfortunate reptile. "Sweetheart, I don't think he wants to go into that bath."

"Well, of course not," Carmen countered matter-of-factly, "_I _never want to go in the tub neither, but you 'n Mommy make me 'cuz you say I stink."

Uncertain of how to explain the difference, her father spluttered, "Well, yes, but you see… Pug is different." As he spoke, the man began to pry his daughter's fingers off her pet. "Animals… well, they don't… they aren't lucky like you and I are; they don't get to have things like baths. They have to clean themselves—see?" Carefully extricating Pug from Carmen's fingers, he placed him on the toilet seat. Moving around the crestfallen six-year-old, he opened the plug and allowed the soapy water to drain.

Once Pug was relatively safe from an untimely demise, the man placed a hand on his little girl's shoulder. "Come on, Car-Car," he said with an easy smile, "Let's go put Pug back in his cage. It's almost time for lunch." As she secured her turtle firmly in her arms, he guided her out of the bathroom while proclaiming light-heartedly, "Mommy's making macaroni."

As they returned Pug to his box, container, Carmen wistfully sighed, "I wish _I_ were a turtle."

* * *

(Friday, October 4, 2019)

When Chris started freshman year back in September, he chose his classes based on one factor: his best friend, Dwight Ryder. Since second grade – when Dwight moved from South Jersey – the two had hit it off spectacularly. Due to the two completely opposing personalities, their instant friendship had surprised both Chris's parents and Dwight's mom. Where Chris was a bundle of energy waiting to explode, Dwight interacted shyly with others. For the boy's first few months at a new school, Chris had been his voice. As Dwight grew more comfortable in his new home, he began to join in eagerly to the odd games Chris conjured with his imagination.

In third grade they made a blood pact (drawing matching "tattoos" in Washable marker rather than blood, lest their parents find out) to always stick together. "Like crazy glue," Dwight had suggested. With a snicker Chris had corrected, "No, like snot." Thought Dwight had pulled a face at the time, he soon found himself repeating the sentiment to his mom, squaring his shoulders in pride.

From there the two had gotten progressively closer until they spent nearly every waking moment in each other's company. Each had begun to exemplify the other's traits. To his mother's pleased amazement, Dwight became a bit louder and more playful—something she never thought she would see, especially after their difficult move to San Francisco. Chris – to everyone's utter shock – became more soft-spoke. At first people (teachers and parents alike) had not believed the change. When they began to notice his growing ability to sit still in class, no one could wrap his mind around the phenomenon. Many attributed it to illness, but Chris seemed otherwise healthy.

To be perfectly honest Piper always knew it would happen in time. With demons dropping in every other week or so, keeping his innocence pure bordered on impossible. Even so, she had expected the change to come later on in his life. Wyatt still had not quite matured to that extent yet. When at first these new traits had emerged, the mother worried that the constant demons had finally gotten to her little boy. Gradually, though, she became accustomed to this newfound addition to his personality.

Once, she asked the child what made him so quiet. Bemused, he replied, "I'm not being quiet, Mommy. I'm just not being loud." She had laughed then because he was right; now he was _normal_ if ever she dared to place such a word on someone with the surname Halliwell.

Nearly six years later, their pact to stick together reigned as potently as ever. It was solely for this reason that the two chose to take almost all the same classes and wrote up the same schedules in all but one period. While Dwight took 'home economics' ("An easy A," the freshmen had been informed by older grades), Chris instead used those same periods to volunteer at the library. No one had been more surprised than Dwight, except perhaps Piper and Leo themselves. As far as they knew, the boy had a severe aversion to texts of any sort. In fact, the only person to understand Chris's logic was Wyatt, his brother.

Where there were books, computers were rarely far behind; with computers came internet access. During that period he and the other volunteer – Casey Spick – were given relatively simple jobs: when books were returned, they had to replace them on their proper shelves. If someone came in search of a particular tome, they would check it out or – if necessary – help find whatever was needed.

Chris and Casey worked out an understanding of sorts. In the beginning of the year, having completely opposing hobbies, they did not quite get along. Casey's love of books had persuaded her to volunteer at the library. For Chris his only motivation was the realization that if he needed to glean information on a demon, he could do so during school hours and not just at home. At first Chris's lack of what she called "dedication" irritated Casey to no end. Finally, after nearly a month spent working together, the two fell into some sort of routine.

Often immersed in a book or else scribbling away in a thin, crisp notebook, Casey sometimes found it difficult to redirect her attention to the front desk. At the same time, she could not for the life of her seem to figure out how to work a computer. On the other hand, _Chris_ could not be bothered to re-shelve books… not to mention even if he _would_, he had no idea where each belonged. So they created a system that worked for both of them: Chris would sit at the desk by the door. If people needed books, he would punch the respective titles into the computer to locate them. When returned, he also checked them back in. The checked-in books would then be left in a little milk crate beside the front desk. From there Casey would take them and return them to their proper shelves.

After coming up with this solution, the two became much more amiable towards one another. And – dare Chris think it? – nearly friendly.

Currently, however, Casey seemed to have forgotten their mutual companionship (since "friendship" was probably too strong a word) in favor of shooting Chris frequent and hateful glares. In Chris's opinion they were completely uncalled for, but apparently she did not share the sentiment.

"A year, Halliwell," she snapped, hidden somewhere between shelves. From his seat behind the desk, the boy tapped his foot almost nervously (though he would never admit to being intimidated). When she used his last name, she meant business, and if Chris Halliwell knew anything it was not to underestimate an irritated female. "It will take me the rest of the frickin' _year_ to fix what you managed to ruin in just a few short days! All my careful organizing, and it's all down the drain just because some ignorant, idiotic—"

"Come on," Chris protested feebly. "I tried. Isn't it the thought that counts… or something like that?"

Poking her head out, she leveled him with another withering glare and snarled, "Not _here_ it doesn't. How did you manage to practically rearrange every single shelf while I was sick?" As she ranted on, she glided through the aisles; turning over books that had been put away upside down, removing texts from incorrect shelves—in short, cleaning up after the mess her bungling partner had made of _her_ precious library.

Crossly, Chris muttered, "Don't you think you're overreacting a bit?"

From somewhere between aisles he heard her affronted, "No I do _not_."

"Look, I'm sorry," Chris sighed, unable to think of what else might appease the irate freshman other than profuse apologies. Lazily, he rested his chin on his left fist. Green eyes stared intently at the computer screen before his face. His right hand moved the mouse across the screen to click a link that caught his eye. With the volume on mute, the computer's announcement of the title when unheard. He didn't need it, though. In big, bold letters at the top of the screen were the words **Abuse in the State of California**. Focused now, his eyes moved down the page, searching for a subtitle that would aid in his research. The boy ignored his partner's continued grumble; he could not redeem himself in her eyes anyway so why bother wasting his own time in such an endeavor? He figured he might as well work on something useful.

_Behavioral Problems in Abused Children__._ He stopped scrolling. For the first time in Chris Halliwell's life, he paid attention to what he read. Though boring, the teen pressed himself forward with the thought of Jake; he _had_ to get through to this kid. Somehow.

"…_ssible behavioral problems may include any of the following traits: many times, the child refrains from complaining because there is instilled in this child that complaint will bring punishment; he or she will be blamed. The child is most often reluctant to tell about the abuse done in the home because he or she feels an emotional connection to the abuser, especially if the abuser is a parent and/or older sibling."_

He read on about possible nightmares, depression, and bedwetting in sexually abused children; but Chris was fairly sure Jake's mom was not messing with him in that sort of way. Even to think about it made him nauseated. As far as he knew, Jake had none of those characteristics anyway. The _"headaches and stomachaches with no apparent medical cause"_ sounded exactly what Jake had pulled the other day… but Chris had a feeling that was a lie and not an actual symptom.

_Just another way for Jake to protect his mom,_ Chris thought in disgust.

"…_child may display inconsistent behaviors in an attempt to adapt to an uncertain environment,"_ Chris continued, eyes moving slowly down the screen. "_The following are four typical categories of behavior under which an abused child falls: 1. aggressive 2. passive 3. adaptive 4. lack of development."_

Since Chris could not picture Jake as an aggressive child, he skipped number one and moved on to the second: "_An overly compliant child may refrain from crying in and out of the abuser's presence. He or she displays a constant, overall sad demeanor and possesses copious amounts of self control.f_

"_A child abused in any form is more prone to ailments such as asthma, high blood pressure, ulcers, etc. He or she may develop an inability to trust others, may feel isolated from his or her friends, which results in low self esteem, depression, and later on in life difficulties with intimate relationships."_

Well, there it was, written right there in black and white. Closing his eyes, Chris picturing Jake the first time they had met: curled up on the floor, fear dancing in his eyes. He could trust no one—not his mother, certainly, but also not the person who claimed to be his angel. Without thinking, Chris had intruded on this boy's relatively consistent lifestyle. Up until then Jake had known what to expect in his life and how to deal with it. Now, all of a sudden, Chris entered into the picture—an actual angel just for Jake. But how could a broken child trust this complete stranger?

After a moment, the teen managed to force open his eyes once again and start the next paragraph, which spoke of the mental and emotional health of a child in an abusive home.

"_Symptoms may include posttraumatic stress disorder, panic disorder, dissociative diso—"_

"Hey, Chris," a familiar voice called. Jerking back, the teen looked away from the computer screen and up at the source of the noise. From behind the bookshelf, Caseyf's head poked out to scowl at the intruder.

"Keep it down," she snapped crossly, "this is a library!"

"Sorry," Dwight chuckled. Lowering his voice dramatically, he asked Chris in a purposely loud stage-whisper, "_What's up?_" Peeking around the desk, he caught a glimpse of the computer screen before Chris minimized the site. The school's logo appeared in its place. "Whachya reading?" he wondered curiously.

Casually, Chris shrugged. "Nothing interesting," he replied, waving away the subject, and then continued before Dwight could get suspicious. "What are you doing here? Don't you have biology now?"

With a shrug Dwight remarked, "I told Mr. Garcia I forgot my textbook in the library."

When Chris laughed outright, Casey stormed toward them, eyes alight. Hurriedly, the witch waved his companion off, promising not to raise the volume again. Once she retreated back to her bookshelves, he felt safe enough to return to their conversation. Still, he kept his voice lowered; he got the strange impression she was watching him from behind the bookshelves. "You know," he commented, "eventually the teachers will all figure out the only difference in our schedule and realize where we go when we leave those classes."

"But until then…" Dwight laughed, raising an eyebrow. Unceremoniously, he flopped down on the empty stool beside his best friend. "Guess what. Mom's not home tonight."

"No?" Chris said, mildly surprised. "Why not?"

Scrunching his nose, Dwight admitted, "She's going out on another date." With a shudder, he quickly added, "But that's not the point. The point is that she won't be home… which means I get the whole house to myself." Smirking, he amended, "Actually _we_ get it to ourselves. You're coming, of course."

"Man, I can't," Chris groaned, closing his eyes and softly banging his head against the desk. "I'm already behind in my work since… recently. If I don't catch up, Mom'll kill me for sure."

Eyes wide, Dwight burst out, "Chris, come on, do you realize what kind of opportunity this is? You live with four other people; you _never_ get the house to yourself!" His voice sounded strained as he attempted to properly emphasize his point while still keeping his voice to a consistent whisper.

"I know," Chris sighed, "don't remind me." When Dwight opened his mouth to argue, the witch quickly said, "Look, you know how much I want to, but my mom would completely freak on me."

"Tell her we're studying," Dwight protested in a strangled sort of cough. Here he sat extending to Chris the enticing offer of temporary freedom. The possibility that Chris would turn it down had not even entered his mind for a fraction of a second.

"Right," Chris snorted, "because she'll totally believe _that_."

For a moment, to Casey Spick's enormous relief, silence reigned. At length, Dwight carefully lifted himself off of the stool. Standing rigidly, he shot his friend a bewildered look of disbelief. In a quiet voice he said, "Oh. Okay, fine. Sorry I bothered."

Stunned, Chris could only watch as Dwight turned on his heel and stormed away. Behind him, the library door slammed shut; this time, thankfully, Casey chose to ignore it, which gave Chris the opportunity to think about what had just transpired. For as long as the boys had known each other, Dwight never bat an eyelash when Chris had to cancel at the very last minute. He took it in stride, accepted the excuses Chris created without further questioning. What happened all of a sudden to change Dwight's mind? Had he finally reached his limit?

_There's nothing you can do about it now, _Chris told himself firmly. A small part of him argued that he could chase after Dwight and try to rectify the situation, but his more rational side overruled that. Running out of the library now, when Dwight would _not_ want to speak with him, would help nobody. _Afterwards,_ he promised himself. _I'll set everything straight once this class ends._

But when, half an hour later, the witch trekked to history class, he could not find Dwight anywhere. Slouched in the last row in the classroom, he waited for his best friend to enter the room; Dwight never showed. When the bell finally rang, Ms. Gowell closed the door, heedless of her missing student.

Taking attendance, she paused at his name, frowning and glancing around the room. "Mr. Ryder?" she called, brow furrowing.

Without hesitation, Chris said, "His mom picked him up for a dentist appointment." When one of the duo went missing, the other always covered; that was how it worked. Even if, as today, the two were at odds with each other, they continued the tradition. Chris would not let Dwight get detention just because he was upset (especially since this whole thing was sort of his own fault to begin with).

Though Ms. Gowell frowned suspiciously, she marked such by his name and called the four remaining names on the list. Putting it away, she picked up her chalk. "Okay. We left off last class talking about…"

* * *

For the rest of the day, Chris saw neither hide nor hair of Dwight. To an extent this was a relief. He was not really sure how he would explain away his lie to Ms. Gowell if Dwight returned. Still, by the end of the day, Chris was determined to find and apologize to his long-time companion.

When the witchlighter stepped into the brisk afternoon air, his brother caught sight of him almost immediately. Joining the freshman, he quipped, "What, no detention?"

"Shut up, Wy," Chris muttered, distracted.

"Oh, sorry," Wyatt smirked, "I meant"—his fingers sarcastically quoted the words—"study hall."

"Shut up," Chris grunted again and then headed off in the opposite direction.

For a moment Wyatt just stared after him in confusion. At length, he called across the yard, "Chris! You're going the wrong way!" as if his brother had not noticed.

Over his shoulder Chris responded, "Just tell Mom I'll be home in a few minutes! I have to do something quick first."

Rolling his eyes, Wyatt muttered, "She's going to ground you for eternity when you don't show up." With an indifferent shrug (after all, it was not _his_ freedom on the line here), he trotted toward their hidden spot and orbed home.

Meanwhile, Chris scanned the yard with a careful eye. As hard as he tried, he could not find his best friend. He supposed that should not have surprised him. If Dwight did not intend to go to any more classes, why would he have stuck around in school?

Sighing in defeat, the teenager headed back in the direction of the building. He would check around inside; if he still could not find Dwight there, he would call it quits and orb home before Piper blew a gasket.

As he trudged back towards the school building, a voice by his left ear softly called his name. Whirling around, he came face to face with the boy for whom he had been searching. An apology ready on his lips, he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, though, Dwight cut him off.

"I'm sorry," he said first. Stunned to silence for the second time that day, Chris's mouth parted in surprise. Since he did not speak, Dwight continued, "It's not your fault that you're behind… Well, that part kinda is but that doesn't mean I have a right to be pissed that you're trying to catch up, even if you're ditching me to do it."

Blinking, Chris tried to force words to the forefront of his mind. At length he managed a lame, "It was my fault, not yours."

Arms crossed, Dwight smirked, "I know." Growing serious, he added, "But that doesn't mean I wasn't a total jerk about it all."

"When… I mean what made you decide this?" Chris asked, bewildered.

Dwight shrugged. "I was upset—so I crashed in the gym. Gave me time to think a bit. Realized you were more right than I was. Or less wrong at least."

"Right," Chris smiled, "thanks."

Suddenly, Dwight shoved him away. "What are you waiting for? Get a move on already. You need to go home and get to work." Chuckling, he turned to walk away. Over his shoulder, he turned to say, "See you tomorrow, Chris."

Nodding, Chris started to walk away, relieved—but then stopped. When he turned back around, Dwight was still watching him. "By the way," the witch called breezily, a smirk dancing in his eyes, "how was that dentist appointment?"

"Dentist—?" Realization dawning over Dwight's face, the teen smiled his gratitude, understanding what his friend meant by the question. "Thanks, Chris."

Chris nodded to him and then headed towards the back of the building so he could orb. As he began to disappear, he smiled, satisfied. Life was finally doing something right for him.

* * *

After stopping by to let his mom know he had not died, he orbed to a place that was fast becoming familiar. This time Jake's mother had not yet come home. Though relieved at this news, the teen wondered with sick dread where she had spent the day and how much it would cost Jake when she finally returned.

"Fridays are Stock-Up Day," explained Jake calmly, albeit somewhat warily as well. "She's gonna come home soon. Just went for some groceries."

Examining the boy's untidy hair and superhero pajamas, Chris observed, "I guess you stayed home from school again today."

Fearful, timid eyes shot up to Chris's to determine his thoughts on the subject. "Y-yeah…"

Hurriedly, Chris assured, "I'm not mad. Hey, everyone's entitled to his secrets, right?" Kneeling beside Jake, he placed his hands on either side of the boy's neck. Though Jake tensed, Chris did not yet release him. This was much too important. The teen recalled what he had read that morning. He pictured Jake as that little boy—scared, mistrustful, shy; a boy who thought he deserved what torture his mother doled out upon him. "Listen to me, Jake. I know it's difficult to trust people after everything you've been through." Involuntarily, Jake flinched as if embarrassed by the way Chris refused to dance around the facts. "But," Chris continued, "I won't leave you."

When Jake looked ill at the very thought of Chris staying, the teen persisted, "I'm not telling you that you have to trust me. In time, I hope the trust will come, but I can't force something like that on you."

To Jake's credit, he attempted a weak smile.

"I just… I want you to know that, okay. Whether you can trust me or not, I will be here for you. Maybe one day, you'll be able to call out to me. If you ever need me—whatever the reason, Jake." Eyes serious, he stared at the boy, whose own eyes remained purposefully glued to the tile floor of the kitchen. "Jake," Chris persisted, "look at me, please."

Reluctantly, a pair of brown orbs inched up to meet his own.

Releasing Jake's shoulders, Chris repeated, "Whatever the reason, Jake. All you ever have to do is call my name; I'll hear it in the sky and come find you."

Though Jake feared speaking, his curiosity overcame his trepidation. Softly, he asked, "It's that easy?"

Hearing the question, the whitelighter broke into a smile. "That easy," he concurred with a half-laugh. "All you have to do is call my—"

Suddenly, both froze as they heard the front door's lock click. Although Chris wanted desperately to stay and protect his charge, Jake's expression silently implored that the angel leave. Lips pressed tightly together, he blinked wide, nervous eyes in the teen's direction. With a hushed promise to watch over him (which, though Jake refused to admit, was just a drop comforting), Chris orbed.

Eyes round and large, Jake watched the dancing lights float towards the ceiling and up to Heaven. _Wow,_ he thought breathlessly. No matter how long the angel decided to stick around, Jake didn't think he would _ever_ grow accustomed to that strange and unearthly mode of transportation.

He heard the front door swing open, jolting him back to reality.

"Jake!" Mommy's voice called. "Come help bring in these packages!"

Immediately, Jake scurried to do as he was told. He left his room behind but the angel's words rebounded within his mind like a distant echo, forever heard.

* * *

**The information in this chapter was from the following websites:**

_**theawarenesscenter . org  
psychologytoday . com  
casadelosninos . org  
childwelfare . gov**_

_**

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**Replies to anonymous reviews:**

pinkphoenix1985 - Well, I'm glad you didn't stop reading, then. Those random tidbits will come up a few more times, but they will explain themselves eventually. They have not yet, but eventually Jordan, Michael, and Carmen will meet Chris. They will become relevant to the story. We will see a _bit _of Jake's school life, yes, but not an inordinate amount. A few times, maybe.

Sarah James - Oh, Chris isn't one to rebel, really. He likes to think of himself that way, but he loves his parents too much to full-out hurt them. If you want to see a rebellious Chris, though, you should check out some of what as written. (Can't help but advocate for her.) She is an excellent writer and loves to take Chris's dark side and run with it. When Chris _does _rebel, he is doing it for the Greater Good. Like, break the rules to do what is right. That is the Chris we will get to know here.

Bahzad - Yeah, I had fun writing that first scene, especially beginning in such a way that might scare the readers into thinking we had just jumped into an action-packed, violent scene... but then giving way to a much calmer view.

Firepony16 - Gambatte kudasai (Good luck). I hope you get that laptop of yours.


	8. 07 Of Sundays and Studying

**-Of Sundays and Studying-**

"_I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters and brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at." –Maya Angelou_

* * *

(Sunday, October 13, 2019)

As it turned out, it took only about a week for Piper to lighften up on her middle fchild. To Chris it had been too long. If forced to take notes any longer, he thought he might very well explode. By now he had history dates and names spilling out of his ears. Finally, after an agonizing week, he could fall back into the routine to which he was long accustomed. At least tomorrow he could; today, thankfully, was a much-needed and well-deserved Sunday.f

Chris's head reached the foot of the bed, his bare feet propped up against the headboard. A few feet above his face hovered a thick book written by a man named Donald Smith, whose name was printed in large, arrogant letters on the cover. He would have preferred to be playing _Gaymz _on his computer to this; unfortunately, his computer had crashed earlier that morning, rendering this wish impossible. The instant his first complaint of boredom had parted from his lips, Piper had sent him upstairs with this book, _The Rise of a War Hero_.

"Reading will do you some good," she insisted. Except that it only generated more boredom as far as Chris was concerned. He had no interest whatsoever in reading about the war of 2012 from the point of view of a surviving soldier with a massive God complex. Chris had to wonder how the guy could stand with an ego the size of New Guinea. Somehow, this Sergeant Donald was under the deluded impression that he had single-handedly stopped the war and brought democracy to multiple third-world countries.

"How do they let morons like this get published?" Chris wondered aloud.

When someone knocked loudly on the door, he lifted his head only a couple of inches. The door opened before he could even call, "Come in." Scowling, he watched his older brother step into the room.

"You could try waiting," the younger teen muttered crossly. "I could have been getting dressed or something."

Wyatt rolled his eyes. "It's not like you have anything I've never seen before," he snorted, which only made Chris's glower even more pronounced. Eyes straying to the book floating in the air, the blonde remarked, "That's personal gain, you know."

Chris sat up sharply on his bed and swatted the book to the floor. "What do you want, Wyatt?" he grumbled irately.

For a moment Wyatt looked as if he wanted to pursue the original subject, but he seemed to wisely decide against it. Instead, he told his brother, "I need a favor."

Eyebrows raised, the younger boy asked, "What?"

"I need you to tell Mom I'm going to Sam's to study."

Instead of answering immediately, Chris gave his brother a quick once-over. He had on an old pair of jeans and a dark blue t-shirt with a picture of a dog whose teeth were bared. On the back of the shirt, Chris knew, were the words "Beware of Rabid Human" in bright red letters. He had a heavy-looking backpack slung over his shoulder that could have been filled with textbooks, except that no sharp edges indicated such. Instead, it bulged shapelessly, as if some sort of fabric had been stuffed inside.

Finally, Chris responded. Through narrowed eyes, Chris questioned, "And where are you _actually_ going?"

Surprised, blue orbed stared at Chris guiltily. "To Sam's to study."

"Right," Chris snorted. "The only reason you would need me to tell Mom is because you know she'll catch you lying—easy. So…? Where are you going?"

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Wyatt admitted, "Underworld to do a bit of hunting."

In that case the knapsack made sense. If Chris had to hazard a guess, he would feel quite comfortable assuming that inside was the trench coat his brother often used for demon hunting. It made blending in that much easier.

Hesitantly, Chris said, "I don't know, Wyatt. If Mom or Dad finds out, we're finished."

"Come on, Chris," Wyatt pleaded, "They'll never know. You owe me one for the time I covered for you when you snuck to what's-his-name's place that night."

Rolling his eyes, Chris growled, "_Dwight_."

Indifferently, Wyatt said, "Yeah, him." When Chris said nothing, his brother cajoled, "Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"

Sarcastically, Chris snapped, "Oh, I don't know—maybe the fact that Mom would completely blow up at me if she found out the truth." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Not to mention you might get killed."

Breezily, Wyatt waved away his brother's concerns. "Relax, Chris. I'm more powerful than anything in the Underworld. Besides, it's just one teensy, weensy, little demon hunt; I won't die."

Unimpressed, Chris replied, "And Mom?"

"As long as you don't tell her, she has no way of finding out," Wyatt assured. "Nothing can go wrong."

Crabbily, Chris grumbled, "Says you."

"Can I take that as a yes?" Wyatt asked, already halfway out the door.

Reluctantly, Chris concurred, "Yeah, yeah, take it as a yes."

"Thanks!" Before Chris could change his mind, Wyatt orbed to the Underworld, leaving his brother's bedroom door wide open.

Scowling, Chris hopped off his bed and went to close the door. As he did so, he muttered in annoyance, "I don't know how I get myself into these things." Just before the door clicked shut, it stopped short against something. Chris opened it to find out what had obstructed it and came face to face with Prue, whose foot was wedged between the door and the threshold.

"Get yourself into what things?" she asked curiously. "Where did Wyatt just go?"

"Nowhere," Chris said quickly. "Move your foot." He tried to close it, but again she pushed it back out of place.

"And where might 'nowhere' be?" When Chris did not answer, she threatened, "I'll tell Mom about it if you don't tell me."

"Go mind your own business," her brother snapped in irritation. "Leave me alone."

Glowering at him, the preteen whined, "You're such a jerk, Chris." As she turned to storm away, she heard a self-satisfied, "Thanks," that tipped her over the edge. Angrily, she screamed, "Mo-om!"

At her receding back, Chris yelled, "Butt out!"

Still, that did nothing to stop Piper from getting involved once she had been summoned. A couple of minutes later, when Chris had returned to his lousy excuse for a book, his mother entered the room. Hands on hips, she reprimanded, "Chris, be nice to your sister."

Without looking up, he challenged, "Why? She's not nice to me."

"Chris…" When he didn't respond, she sighed in exasperation and changed the subject. Casually, she took a seat beside him on the bed. Though he still did not look up, the boy felt his mattress dip and only just managed to bite back a groan. He was in for a long lecture, then, if she was making herself comfortable. "She said you know where Wyatt went?" the long-time mother prompted.

After reading for over an hour, Chris learned only three facts from the book: Egypt had been intimately involved in the war of 2012, Sergeant Donald had been situated there, and said sergeant was a big-headed jerk. He had no qualms about closing the useless text. Doing so, he muttered to his mom, "Of course she did."

"Chris," Piper said again, this time with a warning in her tone. "Where is your brother?"

To himself he answered, _He went on a demon hunt and decided not to tell you because he knew you would never approve._

The teen put on his very best look of innocent exasperation. "Wh—are you kidding?" he cried, sitting up beside his mom. "He told me to tell you he orbed to someone's house to study for some big exam or something." Pretending to look thoughtful, he added at length, "Sam, I think he said.

I dunno, whatever. But why does Prue always have to get involved, huh? It's none of her business. She butts in and then makes a big deal out of everything."

For a moment Chris held his breath, watching his mom out of the corner of his eye. When she accepted his answer without question, he allowed himself only a small smile of relief. That was only half the battle won; he still had to keep up the charade until she deigned it time to leave the room.

"Look, Chris," Piper sighed, "your sister feels left out. You and Wyatt—well, you boys are always doing things together: playing basketball, going to the movies, just hanging out. You never include her in anything."

"Wh—but-but—" Chris stammered incredulously. Hopping off his bed in agitation, he crossed his room to put space between himself and his mother. Prue had butted into something that had absolutely nothing to do with her and here _he _got the lecture? How was _that _for unfair? Piper always took her daughter's side in arguments just because she was the girl, or perhaps because she was the youngest. Chris wasn't sure the reason, only sure of the facts themselves. At length, he cried, "She's a _girl_. I would think she'd want nothing to _do_ with us."

Smirking, Piper remarked dryly, "You know, believe it or not, Chris, I think your sister is old enough to realize by now that boys don't have cooties." Eyebrows raised, she said, "What do you think?"

What did he think? He thought she was a spoiled brat that needed to learn the meaning of personal boundaries. Of course, he didn't voice that. He had no interest in a second lecture, thank you very much. Saying nothing, he offered only a silent, sullen shrug.

With a soft sigh, Piper stood and started towards the door. As her parting words of wisdom, she offered, "She loves you guys, even if she doesn't say it. All she wants is a little attention from her older brothers. Is that really too much for her to ask, hmm?"

Stubborn as any Halliwell, Chris let out a grumpy, "Yes. It is."

Hand on the knob, Piper murmured, "Oh, Chris…" Shaking her head, she left her son alone in his bedroom. Before closing the door, she quickly poked her head back in to ask, "When did you say your brother was coming home again?"

Gruffly, so as not to attract suspicion, the teen replied, "Late. Big test."

"Right." The door closed, leaving him in silence. He waited a breath and then flopped back down onto his bed, staring up at the peeling paint of his ceiling. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Wyatt, you _so_ owe me for this one."

* * *

That night Chris lay awake into the early hours of the morning, his churning mind thought surprisingly not of demons or even of Jake this time but of all the possible ways he could dispose of _The Rise of a War Hero._ His imagination went through the garbage disposal, burning, and flushing down the toilet. Even as he fell asleep, his mind was picturing a gruesome, salivating dog tearing it to shreds. _That_, he thought pitilessly, _is __**exactly**__ what a guy like Donald Smith deserves done to his precious book_.

Without much sleep that night, waking up Monday morning became an absolute nightmare. By the time he stumbled out of his room, Wyatt had already left the house. At least that was what his mom told him as she insistently ushered him towards the front door. Though Chris would never admit to it, he let out an inward sigh of relief. Now he knew Wyatt had gotten home safely. Of course, he had known nothing would happen but still—confirmation helped.

Though he missed the bus by several minutes, he took his sweet time gathering his things for his bag. Piper insisted he get out of the house because she refused to drive him to school (yet again). When she had nagged enough, he orbed out of the manor, her angry objections ringing in his ears.

With the need to pay attention no longer in effect, biology moved fairly quickly. Tuned out, he heard only Mr. Garcia's parting words for the class. After the bell rang, the former college professor called to their retreating backs, "Don't forget, you guys have a test next Monday. Come prepared, please."

_What a useless thing to say, _Chris thought to himself: "_Come prepared." As if that would help. The people who don't plan on coming prepared won't no matter what._

In the ten minutes before the next bell, Chris grabbed his history book from his locker and then went in search of Dwight. The boys shared every class but one: When Dwight took biology, Chris volunteered at the library. During Chris's period with Mr. Garcia, Dwight learned all about becoming a "stay at home mother" in home economics. As he suspected, the young witch found his friend outside the home ec. classroom. Chatting, the two walked to their next class.

* * *

"Bridget Vanguard?"

From the back, a freckly blonde answered, "Here."

"Matt Waters?"

Briefly, Matt lifted his weary head off of folded arms and blinked at his teacher. "Yeah," he remarked, every move of his aching with lethargy.

"Good." Ms. Gowell set down her attendance sheet, replacing it almost immediately with a piece of light blue chalk. "Now, last Friday we left off with General Lee, who fought for the…?"

"Confederates," someone called out. She tried to ignore the fact that only one of her students (two if she counted Duncan, who would not answer the question anyway) knew the answer to a fourth-grade-level review question.

"That's right. And his equal on the union's side was…?" When her question was met with silence, she almost groaned in defeat.

* * *

When the bell rang at ten o'clock, Chris immediately began to gather his possessions and stuff them into the knapsack beside his desk. Dwight stepped up behind him and the two boys followed the rest of the crowd to the door.

"Chris, a word?" Ms. Gowell called from her station behind her desk.. Chris only just bit back a groan but dutifully turned to acknowledge his teacher. "Thank you," she said as Dwight reluctantly closed the door behind him.

As Ms. Gowell gathered together her own notes, Chris listened to the fading voices and footsteps of his classmates with a muted sense of dismay. At length, the teacher turned around. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, jumping straight into the predicament without circumvention.

"What?" Chris asked, somewhat put off by her reproachful question. "Nothing."

Walking around her desk, she glided towards the blackboard. As she spoke, she began to erase the previous lesson in preparation for the next. "Today you seemed a bit…"—_how shall I put this?_ she pondered—"spacey?"

Flatly, Chris repeated, "Spacey," eyebrows raised.

"Yes," Marcy replied matter-of-factly. "I noticed that your behavior today was a bit… lacking." When he said nothing, she plowed onward, stating more bluntly, "You've stopped paying attention." As if he didn't already know that.

This time concern filtered through her voice, throwing him off slightly, when she asked, "Is everything okay at home? You were doing so wonderfully for a few days there, remember?" Of course he remembered; he remembered the torture involved in sitting still all day long with hardly any time to relax. "I was very proud of you."

The genuine concern in her words originally surprised Chris, but the end of her statement already had him concealing a shudder of disgust. _Proud _of him? She sounded like his _mom_ or something—_ew._

Though he wanted to gag, he answered her question instead, trying to ignore that last part of her comment. Carefully, he responded, "There's nothing weird going on at home, no." After all, to the Halliwells having demons popping in every so often was as commonplace and routine as waking up to morning coffee. In Chris's mind, it _wasn't _weird. At least, that was what he told himself in order to mentally excuse the lie.

"Then would you care to explain your strange behavior?" Marcy prompted. By now she should have known better than to actually expect an honest—or at the very least straightforward—answer from this particular student. Maybe she was just naïve that way, though, because it came as a surprise to her all the same.

"Who said it's strange?" he challenged, eyebrows raised. "Up until a week ago, I was always like this. Now…" He shrugged. "Now I'm just back to normal."

"Whatever you'd like to call it," Ms. Gowell interrupted impatiently, "why is it happening?"

"Because," Chris retorted, "everything is finally going back to normal." The bell for next period chose that moment to ring. He stared at his teacher without bothering to hide his boredom and asked, "Can I go now?"

Marcy sighed; she knew she would get no further with him at the present. Before he left, she reached over the desk to her bag, which sat on her chair. From there she extracted a late pass, hastily and messily filling it in. Signing it at the bottom, she handed it over to her student.

Chris glanced at it only briefly and said, "Thanks," and left the room. As he suspected, Dwight was waiting for him by the door. When they started to walk toward their math classroom, the mortal asked simply, "What color?"

This time, Chris analyzed his late pass carefully. Squinting, he decided, "Green," and then groaned. "Why do they always have to use such random pen colors? How are we supposed to—"

"Chris, I'm insulted at how much you underestimate my abilities," Dwight interrupted, stopping in the hallway. He braced himself against the wall and he swung his backpack over to lean against his chest while he rummaged through it. He tugged out random items, which he ignored, handing over to Chris to hold: a flashlight, a vomit-colored highlighter ("never know when _that_ could come in handy," he laughed), and a pad of late passes he had swiped the previous month. Since at the top of each page was written the month, they were useless the moment September ended. He kept them anyway—"I can use them next year," he explained.

After dumping into Chris's palm a short piece of red string, he cried, "Found it!" Quickly, Chris surveyed the empty hallway to make sure they had not been heard. When he returned his gaze, he found Dwight looking triumphant. Clutched in his hand was a dark green pen, almost identical to the color Ms. Gowell had used to write up the late pass.

"Here," Dwight said, "hand it over." Chris did so, placing the late pass in his friend's outstretched hand. Dwight sat back on the balls of his feet with his back propped up against the wall and concentrated on adding his name in Ms. Gowell's handwriting. As he did so, Chris began to stuff the other things back into the open pocket.

Still focused on his work, Dwight said absently, "Be careful with the string."

Eyebrows rising in bemusement, Chris stared at his friend. "Uh… oh-kay…" Very slowly, he replaced the red strand in his friend's knapsack. Just as he did so, Dwight stood up, finished with his masterpiece.

Looking it over, Chris whistled. "Nicely done."

"Thanks. It's pretty accurate, isn't it?"

Casting a sidelong glance at the self-satisfied grin on Dwight's face, Chris rolled his eyes. He ignored the remark and began to walk away, not bothering to wait for Dwight to catch up. Behind him, he heard his best friend's loud laughter ringing down the hallway. That was it: they were _definitely_ getting caught.

* * *

Six minutes ago, Mr. Randall jotted down twelve math problems on the computerized whiteboard present in all mathematics classrooms. He gave the class ten minutes to finish; Chris had already completed and checked all of his answers. Cheek resting against the palm of his left hand, he stared lazily at the teacher's desk at the head of the classroom. Straying eyes moved toward the late pass sitting on the corner of the desk. When the two boys came in, Mr. Randall raised an eyebrow but let them through without a fuss. As the teens had known would happen, the teacher hardly spared more than a moment's glance for the note. The best friends relied on teachers' immediate trust.

"Uh… excuse me?" From the door, the secretary timidly poked her head inside the room. Only afterwards, she rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood of the threshold.

Glancing up from his students' bent heads, Mr. Randall inquired with a smile, "Is there a problem, Miss Sanders?"

"Um, well, no but, um…" Looking at Chris, she finally got out, "Mrs. Halliwell is here to pick up her sons for their eye doctor appointments."

Mr. Randall turned toward Chris, chuckling good-naturedly. "Coming late, leaving early. Eh, Halliwell? I guess if you're going to skip out on class, you might as well do it right, huh?"

As he gathered his stuff together, the witch smiled. "My mom thinks Wyatt needs glasses," he said, when in truth both boys had almost perfect vision. "She decided to drag me along for the ride while she was at it." When, in fact, they—and Prue—had gone to the eye doctor already in June. Still, Chris casually played the lie as he swung his knapsack over his shoulder.

"Make sure you call Ryder for the homework," Mr. Randall reminded, and Chris nodded before following Miss Sanders back to the office.

When he got there, he saw his mother pacing nervously just outside the office. A few seconds later, she caught sight of him as well.

"Chris!" she cried, half in relief and half in admonishment. "What took you so long? We'll be late for our appointment!" Dragging him to the office, she explained, "Wyatt's already in the car, but I couldn't sign you out until you got here. Now that you're down, I can. Go wait in the car; I'll be right there."

Still having no idea of why she had come, he trudged into the autumn air and through the parking lot. Above him gray clouds spanned the sky, concealing the heat of the sun. With a shiver, Chris hugged his arms around his chest and surveyed the lot for Piper's car. He found it a few seconds later and hurried across the asphalt to the vehicle.

Wyatt, who was sitting in the passenger's seat, barely took notice when Chris slid into the seat behind him. Only when the fifteen-year-old asked, "What time did you get home?" was he acknowledged.

"A little after midnight," Wyatt answered. "And I glamoured over it so Mom and Dad don't notice anything suspicious."

The first part Chris had expected, but the second… "Glamoured over _what_?" he demanded somewhat angrily. "You said you wouldn't get hit."

"No," Wyatt calmly corrected, "I said I wouldn't get _killed_. I'm fine, Chris."

"Great. Turn around." As witches with whitelighter blood, both brothers had the ability to glamour for short periods of time; it was this very power that allowed them to detect and even override the ability on others. If Wyatt claimed he was not bad off, Chris wanted to see just how "fine" his brother actually was.

Slowly, Wyatt turned in his seat to face Chris. At first the younger boy saw only pale, glowing orbs around the seventeen-year-old's right eye and on his left cheekbone, as if someone had accidentally sprinkled glitter all over his face. After a moment, that faded only to get replaced with the ailments Chris had both feared and suspected. A dark bruise formed a black ring around the witch's eye. Along his cheek was a long albeit shallow gash that had been haphazardly taped together with butterfly stitches.

Chris sucked in a sharp breath. "Damn, Wyatt, you're lucky Dad isn't a whitelighter anymore. If he saw this…"

In his defense, Wyatt retorted, "I took care of it just fine on my own, thanks. Look, I even rubbed some disinfectant on the stuff first, didn't I?" He turned in his seat in order to better face his younger brother. Chris glared evenly, arms folded.

"You are completely insane. How can you just—"

Wyatt saw Piper rushing towards the car through his window. Cutting off Chris's statement, he hissed, "Shut up before Mom hears."

_Would serve you right if she did,_ Chris thought but did not say. He closed his mouth just as Piper squeezed into the car. Façade calm, Wyatt turned back around to face forward in his seat.

"Demon?" he guessed solemnly. Eyes staring intently ahead of her, Piper only nodded.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Chris piped in, "What about Aunt Phoebe and Aunt Paige?" The car sped down the empty street as Piper's knuckles turned white in their ferocious grip on the steering wheel.

When they paused at a stoplight, Piper responded to her son's query. "Paige isn't answering my calls, which just means she's in her classroom because she turns everyone on mute when she's teaching." The way her lips pursed tightly showed the boys exactly what she thought of that idea. Not that they needed the reminder. Whenever they got tired of Mom interrupting a good time, they would conveniently put her on mute. Well, that built no pleasure in _her_. The instant they returned home, the brothers would receive the earful they had missed by silencing her before… plus interest. Long ago they had learned not to use that handy ability with their mother, and neither boy could understand how Paige _still_ had not seemed to comprehend that.

"What about Aunt Phoebe?" Wyatt asked.

"Yesterday she told me she'd be in meetings all day, and my guess is she either turned off her phone or left it in her office." Eyes betraying her reluctance, she glanced in the rearview mirror at Chris and then sideways at Wyatt. "As much as I hate to pull you guys out of school like this, I don't have any other choice this time."

Cheerfully, Chris replied, "Oh, that's okay, Mom; we don't mind."

Wryly, Piper stared at him through the mirror. "You know," she remarked, "this may come as a surprise to you, but I would actually _like_ for my children to get a decent education."

"Oh, Mom, chill out," Wyatt laughed. "Missing one day of school won't kill us."

_No,_ Chris thought mildly to himself, _but this demon might. _That thought, however, he did not voice.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of Prue's school. Piper stopped in front of the building and ran inside, leaving the keys in the ignition to save time. When she next returned, she had her youngest child trailing behind. The preteen looked just as eager as her brothers had at the prospect of getting taken out of school to vanquish a demon. Half-a-step in front of her, their mother looked less than pleased. In the backseat, Prue opened the door on the driver's side and first threw in her knapsack. Afterwards, she squeezed in beside it.

"You got your seatbelt on?" Piper called to her daughter, starting up the car before she received a response.

As they drove out of the lot, Prue scoffed, "Of course."

They reached the manor faster than Chris would have assumed possible. Chris had to silently wonder if Piper had used magic to ensure optimal traffic conditions, but of course he didn't dare voice the suggestion; even if it were true, better to be left in a state of ignorance, he decided, than to know and have to endure Piper's wrath at the insinuation. Motor off, the long-time mother-of-three immediately ushered her children out of the car. "Let's go," she insisted, "we have a demon to catch, and I'm getting you all back before school is over—"

Reaching in to grab his knapsack, Chris snorted, "Fat chance." When Piper turned her warning eyes on him, he quickly turned his remark into a sheepish cough. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he hurried after his siblings into the shelter of the manor.

* * *

**Reviews are golden. What with the recession, I could probably use the extra shiny-stuffs. Please? Such an effortless way to help a damsel in distress.**

**By the way, I'm going to start being awful and rotten and mean. I figure it's my prerogative; any writer's really. There are people who put this story on alerts or into favorites without a single review, and that just riles me up. I tend to be a calm person in general, but something that always gets under my skin is when people don't give me feedback on my writing. I am giving you something through my own sweat, blood, and tears. Don't I deserve something in return? All I ask are your words in exchange for mine. I don't need meaningless compliments, so you don't have to go faking anything. I want your honest opinions. Is that really too much to ask for? Well, it's bad enough when people read without commenting. But when you put me into your favorites or on your alerts, it means you obviously thought enough about it to decide you liked it for whatever reason. _I want to hear those thoughts! _**

**Here is the meanness shining through: in my next chapter, I will start posting the names of all the people who have put me on alerts or into their favorites without reviewing a single chapter. That's right, I will publically complain about all you lazy bums out there - shamelessly. Don't think that if you send a review after the fact to complain that I will be embarrassed or apologize. I will tell you very calmly, "You made your bed; now you get to lie in it."**

**Oh, and don't think a cheapskate review will suffice. If you write for this chapter, "Exciting!" or anything as useless as that, don't think I'll accept that and take you off my Public Humiliation list. Oh no, that doesn't count.**

**And don't you dare call me mean because _you _are the mean one here, letting me do all the work without getting a single stitch of payment in return. I'm not being selfish, okay? Well, maybe I am - but I have the right to be with the work I put into this. _Every _author does; that's the point I'm trying to make here. I think every author should do something like that, should publically humiliate all these rotten people who don't have the decency for a lousy review. So yes, I'm being selfish. I'm entitled. And you will feel the brunt of it. Too bad on you. You know what you have to do to stop it.**

**For those of you who _do _give decent reviews, I hope you got a laugh out of the rant. And be sure to keep your eyes peeled because next time you will get some ultimate entertainment in the way of Public Humiliation of people who are Not You. (That's the best kind. _-wink-_)**

* * *

**Replies to anonymous reviews:**

Firepony16 - You're probably more relaxed now, what with school being out and all. Hope you have more time to yourself.

Ssatsuki - Ah, what a lovely thing to say. I would just like to pause and quote these brilliant words for the rest of you lousy people out there: "Too lazy to sign in, **_but not too lazy to review._**"Look at that. Look at that! Not too lazy to review, eh? Hm, imagine that. You got that spot on, by the way. When Jake's mom isn't intoxicated, she can be quite sweet. The problem is, you can't have this dual personality. A child isn't able to differentiate; all he knows is Mommy hurts him. Mommy must hate him, or he must be a bad boy. Carmen, Michael, and Jordan are three characters integral to the story. Towards the middle of the story, they and Chris will collide. When they do, you will understand their importance. Until then it seems like just a cute story to break up the chapters every once in a while. I assure you they are of great importance, however. Don't worry, I won't stop posting for an entire _year. _The reason the updates are sometimes few and far between is not at all my fault, actually _(coughcoughSAMcoughcough). _Hm, wonder if she's reading this right now. Anyway, and I post together, so to speak. This time was my turn to post first, and next time will be hers; we switch off. She wasn't ready yet, so this was totally, totally not my fault. :) (Got that, Sam? _-smiles innocently-_)

pinkphoenix1985 - All of these you will see again - more Chris/Dwight, a bit more Chris/Casey. Cute scenes, some of them, hafta admit.


	9. 08 Of Monsters and Mysteries

Posted for Sam. I'll tell you the same thing you told me: I sincerely hope this makes you smile… even if it is a little one.

**-Of Monsters and Mysteries-**

"_Conscience is less an inner voice than the memory of a mother's glance." –Robert Brault_

* * *

(year: 1998)

Grayish wisps of hair were pulled back into a short ponytail that curled toward the nape of her neck like a pig's tail. Compassionate, blue eyes scanned the hallway as the old woman shuffled down the narrow hallway. Her flat dress-shoes made a soft tap-tap-tap against the old wood floor. In her black suit pants and jacket, she could not have looked less like her cheerful, lighthearted self if she tried. She stopped in front of a bedroom door, knocked lightly, and in a gentle voice called, "Carmen? It's Grandma, sweetheart."

When she received no reply, the somber face pushed the door open and poked her head inside. She was met with the scene of an empty bedroom in disarray. All the drawers of the dresser were yanked open. Clothes were strewn across the floor. The pillow had been chucked off the bed, where it had landed a few feet away from the door. The chair by the desk was overturned.

Quietly shutting the door again, the woman moved down the hall to a different door. Behind this one she heard muffled sobs.

"Carmen?" she murmured again. She had to force herself to keep from pressing her ear to the door. "Sweetie? It's time to go."

Again, nothing met her ears save the insistent sobs from behind the door. This time when she opened it, she knew she would find her granddaughter behind it. Sure enough, two sock-clad feet poked out beside a porcelain, off-white toilet. As the old woman shuffled farther into the bathroom, the rest of the nine-year-old came into view. Her shoulders were hunched, her arms wrapped protectively around drawn-up knees, and tears streamed loudly down her cheeks. She wore a short-sleeve, black dress of velvet with lace at the ends of her sleeves and at the hem, which fell just below her knees. When she noticed her grandma, Carmen quickly hid her face in the small recess between her knees. Her shoulders continued to shake.

"Carmen?" the old woman crooned softly. "Carmen, you don't want to be late, sweetheart."

The girl lifted her head, only to sob, "Grandma," in a strangled tone. Tears fell from red-rimmed eyes down splotchy cheeks. Without warning the child launched herself into her grandmother's arms. "Grandma, I don't want to go," she begged, burying her head against the old lady's shoulder. "Please don't make me go."

Her grandma ran a wrinkled hand through Carmen's silky, brushed hair. Gently, she reasoned, "He would want you to be there, darling. It wouldn't be right not to go."

Carmen did not remember standing or walking toward the kitchen with one small hand tucked in the protective grip of her grandma. She recalled only a blur of vision, and finding her brothers and mother standing by the door in the kitchen, waiting on her. She remembered quite clearly, however, the defeated look that made home on Mother's face, an expression so unfamiliar to those regal features.

"Come here, Carmen," she said, beckoning to her youngest child. Carmen had never heard her mother speak so softly before. "Come here, my baby." And though Carmen and her mother had never been close, the nine-year-old willingly fell into those open arms and wept her broken heart into her mother's blouse. Feeling two arms surround her head was all she wanted, she thought; and the only regret she had was that the arms belonged to the wrong person.

* * *

(Monday, October 14, 2019)

It seemed Piper had been mistaken. After nearly two hours, they were no closer to finding the demon than before. Everyone worked busily, but they were no closer to finding or vanquishing the demon than they had been upon first entering the manor. Piper had tried to call her sisters several times with no answer, so she put her three children to hard work to compensate for the lack of their usual added firepower.

Her second child stood in the middle of the attic, a pad of paper sitting atop an open Book of Shadows. Brow furrowed, he worked intently on his summoning spell. After finding nothing in the Book about the demon, Chris had no specific traits to start him off. He didn't know how well the incantation would work without them, but he would do the best he could.

His older brother was across the room, poring over a map of San Francisco. Arm raised above the map, the seventeen-year-old swung an amethyst crystal over the street names and highways. It swung in lethargic circles that matched the bored expression in the eyes of the person who held it.

Together, Piper and Prue worked on what they hoped would become a successful vanquishing potion. Without a piece of his flesh or a guaranteed recipe from their ancient tome, though, they could not be certain it would work until they tried. Piper threw in a sprig of basil as Prue stirred the brew with a wooden mixing spoon. Dark liquid sloshed noiselessly inside the cauldron. Pieces of ingredients, indistinguishable after their soak, occasionally floated to the top of the brew. When they emerged, Prue immediately dunked them back beneath the surface with the mixer. She watched carefully for any such occurrences while continuing to stir counterclockwise in a smooth rhythm. At length, she ceased the fluid, continuous motion. Her lips moved almost imperceptibly, counting in silence. When she reached seven and a third, she removed the spoon and tapped it against the rim to get rid of any excess liquid.

Leaning over her shoulder, Piper tipped a white, powdery substance into the cauldron, an ingredient she insisted was powdered fairy wings but which Chris and Wyatt refused to believe was anything other than cocaine. Prue rolled her eyes whenever they cracked such juvenile remarks (but secretly thought they were quite amusing).

The powder settled on top for a moment before sinking beneath the murky surface of the potion, which began to hiss in anticipation. A couple of seconds later the liquid turned a milky shade of green. The two brewers watched with satisfaction as indigo plumes of smoke rose from the brew, curling around their cheeks and stinging their eyes. Prue allowed herself only a slight smile before returning to business.

She always had a knack for potions and took the craft very seriously, a fact that made her the target of brotherly ridicule on many an occasion. She refused to allow her natural-born talent to fall to the wayside and nurtured it every chance that presented. Besides, the first half of the potion-making process was always the easiest part. If she got cocky now and ruined the brew, she would have to throw away the whole batch and begin afresh. They didn't have that kind of time, especially when she and her mom were making this one up as they went along. Once Piper had taught her the basics a few years back, improvising had become a specialty. All she had to do was focus.

With renewed determination, Prue turned to analyze her ingredients, debating which would imbue the potion with the greatest potency. Meanwhile, Wyatt sighed heavily into the stagnant air and Chris scribbled out the third line of his spell. The quiet busyness continued with a sense of muted urgency. The threat of an attack was certainly on their minds, but it was difficult to feel the extent of that looming danger when in the comfort of silent company, each carrying out his or her own task with the assurance of a familiar chore.

Wyatt broke the silence first. Yawning purposefully, he let his arm and the crystal drop onto the table. Chris glanced up only long enough to see if his brother had found the demon before he returned all focus to his task at hand. "Mom," the oldest child groaned, "my arm is _killing_ me, and the crystal isn't dropping anywhere." Piper looked up with one raised eyebrow that Wyatt, in all his impatience, neglected to notice. "Can't we call it quits yet?"

Piper refused to deign her son's whining with a response. Instead, ignoring him completely, she turned to ask Prue, "What do you think about adding basil leaves?"

Prue bit her lip thoughtfully, brow furrowed in concentration, before replying, "I was thinking about that, but then I thought asphodel root would go better with the pig's foot we added earlier. Basil and pig tend to cancel each other out, right?"

"I completely forgot we added that," Piper exclaimed. Her eyes glimmered with deep pride. "Add the roots, then." As Prue reached across the table for the ingredient, Piper sighed, "You'll be the best if you keep at it like this, Prue; you mark my words. You're a total natural." Blushing, Prue averted her gaze, though a pleased smile crept across her cheeks. She mumbled something incoherent as her fingers fumbled to tear the white flowers' roots into small enough pieces.

From his stance beside the map Wyatt pleaded, "How about just five minutes, then? What's the harm in five lousy minutes?" He watched his mother through the hopeful eyes of someone who honestly believed he would be granted his desire.

Piper's subsequent glare was one she had years as the Halliwell matriarch to perfect. "_No_," she said sharply with a tone that brooked no argument, save that of a fool. While Wyatt acted dim-witted often enough, that was more for show than anything deeper. A fool he most certainly was not.

"Prue?" Piper continued as if not interruption had occurred, "Pass me those roots, would you?"

Prue finished tearing the last stem and set the pieces on the tabletop with the others. Nodding agreeably, she scooped up the pile and dumped it into her mother's cupped palms. Piper began to feed them to the potion one by one. She was so completely absorbed in her work that even Wyatt had to admit she had probably already forgotten about his request. Sighing extra loudly, he picked up the discarded crystal from the table and resumed his magical search. He set one elbow down on the table and rested his cheek on his fist.

"Why am I always the one stuck with the scrying?" he lamented to nobody in particular.

He didn't expect an answer and was somewhat surprised to receive one; apparently someone _was _listening, which pleased him a tad to know. In a falsely cheerful tone, Chris offered, "Wanna trade?"

"Writing poems?" Wyatt visibly shuddered. "I'll pass." Chris smirked at the expected response and, stifling a snort, returned to his spell.

Her own job done, Prue turned to face her brother and his colossal bad mood. "The only reason you get scrying duty is because you can't write a decent spell or brew a decent potion. Can't do _everything_," she remarked, her tone sounding almost bitter to someone who didn't know her better.

When he grumbled, "Still isn't fair," she rolled her eyes. Boys could be _so_ immature sometimes.

Without looking up from the potion she had begun to stir, Piper called, "How's that spell coming?"

"Great," Chris answered, "I'm almost finished."

"Excellent. Wyatt?" Her tone was both questioning and warning in a perfect combination only she could accomplish. Wyatt did not dare test her again.

"The fish just aren't biting today," he mourned, resigned to his pitiful fate. Switching the pendant to his left hand, he shook the numb tingling out of his right. "I think I lost circulation in my fingers," he whined. "You know, if anyone cares or anything." Conveniently, Piper ignored him.

"Well," she said instead, leaning forward to analyze the now-fuchsia contents of her potion. She tapped her spoon against the rim and set it down beside the cauldron. A few rivulets of emerald still swirled around the outer rim of the brew, but what remained was fast vanishing in the all-consuming pink. "I don't think there's anything more Prue and I can do here."

"Me either," Prue offered.

"Great. Go get some vials so we can bottle this thing," she instructed, motioning toward the cauldron. She dried her hands on the dishtowel she had snatched from the kitchen when they first arrived home. As she started towards the attic door, she explained over her shoulder, "I'm going to try to reach your aunts ag—"

Three unified cries of "Mom!" made her duck instinctively, which was all that stopped a fireball from melting off the skin of her face. Instead, it careened harmlessly over her left shoulder; she felt the heat as it barreled past. Second nature had her whirl around and lift her hands to activate her powers; then, she checked on the safety of her children. She was met with a mixed expression of horror and relief duplicated on all three faces. Wyatt's crystal had finally dropped, the mother noticed amid her other spinning thoughts, on what she could guess blindly was their own address.

The creature frozen in the middle of the attic stood between her and her children. Its shoulders were thrown back in premature triumph, towering over Piper's five-feet-two-inches by at least half a foot. It had one hand outstretched towards her, the charred nails of its fingers curling over a leathery palm. Lacking pupils or irises, its eyes were two sucking, black holes of void. On its face was a hideously warped sneer, cut in half by a scar that ran from the bridge of its sharp nose to its curled upper lip. The teeth bared below it were jagged and discolored.

They stood without movement—four witches and a frozen demon—until one voice spurred them into motion. It was Wyatt's. "Mom, what are you _doing_?" he breathed, his tone laced with the unwelcome twist of fear that he so rarely experienced. When he saw the hurled fireball spin towards his mother, instant panic had him clench his fists and bare his teeth, as if warding off the pain of a physical blow. Now, once his heart had begun to beat again, he slowly unfurled his left hand. He felt it sting and glanced down to watch as the skin of his palm peeled away from the crystal he had clutched in his grasp. Pronounced indentations gave proof to his sudden bout of helplessness, a brand on his skin.

He heard Chris ask, "Why didn't you blow him up?" in a reasonably calmer voice. Somehow, though Wyatt had meant to ask the very same question, his own query had come out sounding slightly altered.

"If I could do that," she countered in exasperation, "do you really think I would have pulled the three of you out of school for this?" She loved her boys dearly, but sometimes they refused to use the brains she knew they had _somewhere_ within those thick skulls of theirs.

Her eyes darted quickly from the unmoving form of the attacker to her youngest child, who had frozen in terror the instant the demon arrived. She had stopped with one hand on the ladle while the other clutched an empty vial. Both eyes, impossibly wide, were trained on the demon so that she did not notice the brew slowly dribbling from her spoon. Perhaps Piper should not have taken her daughter from school. She wanted the girl to get practice and hone her potion-brewing skills, but maybe she was still a bit young for this, even if there were two siblings and an overprotective mother there to look after her. Prue certainly fought the stray chameleon or rat demon that attacked the manor, but she had never truly faced anything more powerful than the average bounty hunter.

"Prue," she said at length, lips pursed and barely moving as she spoke. Prue's eyes darted to her mother. "Maybe you should go wait dow—" she began.

Immediately, Prue shook her head. "No," she said once to convince her mother, and then repeated, "No," a second time as if to convince herself of the very same thing. "I want to help."

Eyes once again returning to the demon, Piper said, "Okay. Fill the vials, then. Quickly." They really did not have enough time to argue the subject. Besides, she trusted her daughter's judgment.

Prue jumped to do as she was told. She dipped the ladle back into the cooling brew (because by that point nearly all of the original spoonful had been emptied onto the table) and extracted it once again filled. She held the vial level with her eyes so she could measure precisely and then tipped the ladle into it. When it was halfway done, a movement in the corner of her eye made her pause in apprehension.

She looked up, heedless of her mom's call to hurry up and finish, to see both her brothers tensed for a fight. She followed the direction of their gaze to the motion that had originally caught her attention. The demon's arm had begun to move, slowly at first, like a mixing spoon in a botched potion that had turned to sludge, before gaining momentum.

"Prue," Piper hissed, "the potion!"

The girl's breath caught sharply in her throat but, swallowing painfully around it, she returned her gaze to the vial. Some of the potion has spilled down the sides in her moment of distraction. With shaking hands, she finished pouring and reached for a cork.

A roar of fury made her balk. The vial slipped from her loosened grasp and shattered on the floor. Smoke rose from the shards and curled up around the preteen's ankles before swirling back into itself, gone and unused. She barely noticed, eyes glued to the demon that had finally broken through Piper's powers. At the sound of breaking glass, it spun to face her. The girl let out a stifled, "Eep," which was all her voice would allow. Eyes narrowed, the demon sneered, lip curling, and opened the palm of his right hand. Fire crackled to life between his gnarled fingers, glowing and alight. It rotated in his open palm, and his empty eyes rose from the power to its target. When his eyeless gaze leveled on the youngest witch in the room, she shrunk back in wide-eyed fear. Her shoulders rose almost defensively, as if in doing so she would somehow protect herself from the demon's calculating stare.

And then, suddenly, the fireball was spinning towards her face and she saw nothing save a violent tornado of red and orange. She clenched her fists against the wood of the table, her heart screamed against her ribcage, her breath caught brutally in her throat, but all she could do as the fireball came hurtling toward her face was close her eyes and wait for agony.

"Prue!" Piper cried.

Once again, Wyatt froze—until Chris snapped him from his stupor. The younger teen had always been the sibling best able to think on his feet, and he utilized the ability now. Wyatt was closer to their sister, standing only a few feet away. "Wyatt, orb her out of here!" Chris instructed sharply.

Instinctively, the blonde jumped to respond to the order. Lunging for his sister, his body already began to melt into orbs. By the time he reached her, only milliseconds before the fireball collided with flesh, he had nearly disappeared altogether. His hand closed around her elbow and in moments she was gone, too. Blue light dotted where they had just stood. It spun swiftly before spiraling downward and vanishing through the floor. The fireball careened past the place Prue had been standing and exploded into the table that had been behind her. It collapsed in a crash of splintered wood and, with it, the just-ready potion splashed to the floor. On its side the cauldron rolled across the floor in circles until it came to a stop in a puddle of its own brew. The two remaining witches watched in dismay as their carefully-created potion leaked out along the floorboards in all directions.

* * *

Wyatt and Prue reappeared in the living room just in time to hear a crash that made the younger of the two wince. Her hands, which had been balled into fists, slowly unfurled when she realized she was still breathing. Tentatively, one eyelid peeled open; then the other a few seconds later. It took her significantly longer to find her voice, until which point brother and sister remained in thick, worried silence.

When she finally spoke, it was so quietly that even Wyatt's sensitive ears had trouble catching the words: "Did—I—what… _happened_?" Her face was still drawn and pale, her hands still trembling.

Instead of an answer, Wyatt set his free hand on his sister's shoulder and carefully led her to the couch, where he guided her into the seat. She allowed him to push her onto the cushions without complaint, saying nothing when he sat down beside her. Right now her mind could barely process the idea of what to do herself. She had to actively remind herself to breathe, and at the moment that alone took all the willpower she possessed.

"Prue, are you okay?" The concern in Wyatt's tone somehow wormed past the ringing in her ears. A couple of moments later, her brain actually drew a connection between the words and their definitions. Still, understanding his comment was a far cry from forming one of her own. She looked up at him with a hodgepodge of so many emotions that he was hard-pressed to identify a single one. "I…" She paused, swallowed thickly, and tried again. "I…"

Patting her shoulder warmly, Wyatt offered, "Here, let me get you a drink of—"

"No!" Prue cried suddenly. Her hand shot out to grab a fistful of her brother's shirt, clinging as if her very life depended on him. Wyatt, who had gotten up to move toward the kitchen, stopped and looked down at the hunched form that was his little sister. When she said nothing more, he watched her for a few seconds and then returned to his seat beside her on the couch.

"Prue…?"

She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to ignore the concerned gaze that she could feel scrutinizing her face. In response to his unasked query she whispered only, "Please don't leave me alone."

Sighing, Wyatt sat down beside his sister on the couch and snaked his arm around her shoulder. As he pulled her to his side, he promised, "Relax, Prue, everything will be fine."

She sniffed loudly, leaning into his shoulder for support. "I feel like a complete idiot," she admitted. "It was just a lousy fireball, but I completely freaked out and froze up." When Wyatt looked down, he saw her glaring at the wall, fists clenched in self-resentment.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said, pulling away to look her in the eye. "You can't be this hard on yourself, missy. It was a _fireball_ coming at your face in case you forgot." Though she snorted, the girl said nothing. "The first time that happened to me," Wyatt continued, and then winked, "Well, I didn't have an awesome big brother to orb me out of there." Wincing, he added, "I still remember what it felt like."

_I thought my skin was melting off my face._ Of course, that he had no reason to tell. Why senselessly scare his sister even more?

"Aunt Paige healed me, of course; but I was still sore for weeks after." Chuckling, he said, "Chris thought the whole thing was royally funny—an absolute riot."

"Chris would," Prue remarked dryly. Silent for a moment, she finally peered into her brother's eyes. Reflected in them was her face, looking much calmer now. Softly, she said, "Thanks, Wyatt."

Grinning, her brother replied, "Hey, kiddo, what are brothers for, right?"

The girl's eyes strayed towards the ceiling, where the muted sound of battle emerged. Nervously, she asked, "Do you think they're okay?"

Wyatt followed her gaze. He could picture the attack in his mind, just one of the many he and his family so frequently had to face. "They'll be fine. Mom and Chris know how to take care of demons," he assured.

* * *

Meanwhile, the attic quickly filled with dust and debris. Honestly, when this was all over, Piper decided she would clean up this old room once and for all.

The matriarch summoned all her power and threw her hands outward. The only indication that she had used her powers was the way the demons stumbled backwards slightly. Steadying itself, it shot a cocky sneer in her direction. Inside, her mind spun: what could she do? The potion had been their only chance. Now, with it spilled all over the floor… How could they vanquish the demon now?

In the moment that she let her mind wander, the demon caught her off guard. Her feet left the floor. She found herself suspended in midair, and then she was soaring through the stale air. When she threw out her hands to catch herself, a searing pain exploded in her wrist. She had hit the bookshelf. She cradled her right hand to her chest and, through the haze of pain, tried to assess the damage. Not broken—just bruised, then, or badly sprained.

Then more pain, this time washing over her spine as she descended from her short-lived flight. Something—floor? table? wall?—splintered and dizziness swept over her. It left her vision swimming. Through the fog she heard Chris cry, "Mom!" as if from far away.

Chris. His image gave her a momentary strength that cleared the haze before her eyes. She had to protect her son. But without the potion, how could she poss…

Wait… they _did_ still have the potion. Just because it had splattered all over the floor did not make it useless. After all, Paige orbed liquids all the time. Chris's telekinesis worked differently than his aunt's to be sure, but Piper knew the determination in him would not let that be cause for failure.

She fought off the darkness crowding in on her. With all her fleeing energy, she yelled, "Chris!" The witch could only hope she was speaking aloud. "Chris, use your powers!"

* * *

Chris watched his mother's body crumple to the ground. His heart skipped a few beats, but other than that he remained surprisingly calm. He worked well under pressure; he could do this. Right now he wanted to forget everything and run to his mom, but reason held him in place. Instead, he watched her weakly raise her head and give a strangled cry. "Chris… Chris," she croaked, barely audible, "use your powers…" She said nothing more, leaving Chris to wonder at the seemingly cryptic phrase. If her own powers did not work on this demon, how could she expect her son's to cause any damage?

_She must have an idea,_ he told himself firmly; _she wouldn't have said it if she didn't think I had a chance._ His mind spun with possibilities, but each was less likely than its predecessor. Whatever it was, he had to think fast. Time was fast running out.

With one witch down, the demon turned to the second with a sneer. When it took a step in Chris's direction, the teen through out his hand in a wide arc. A leg from the broken potions table splintered and snapped; it flew from its position straight toward the demon. Lazily—laughing, even—the creature sent it clattering to the floor.

Chris's mind worked furiously as he tried to decipher his mother's message. _Why are my powers better than Mom's?_ he mused. He took a step back and threw another slab of wood to buy himself some time. _Mom can make things explode…_ Suddenly, it clicked.

_Mom makes things blow up from the outside._ His eyes narrowed to mere slits as the revelation crept around his shoulders. Aloud, he concluded triumphantly, "I can kill him from the inside out."

Now that he knew what had to happen, determination surged through his veins. He took a few quick steps forward, jaw set. The demon hesitated, confusion spreading across its face. What had this kid so cocky when he was so close to death? Bewilderment only enraged the demon. With a snarl, it conjured a fireball.

Chris, however, remained calm as he stared the power in the face. Unmoving, he brought his hand up to his chest. He pictured the demon's insides, dark and hot with blood. Sort of vaguely, he recalled human anatomy as he had learned it in seventh grade. Did demons' bodies look the same on the inside?

_Focus, Chris. __**So**__ not the time._ Staring at the demon's chest, he carefully cupped his hand. Suddenly, the witch could feel a mass weighing between his empty fingers. It pumped black blood through the demon's veins, blissfully ignorant of the imminent danger that lay ahead: its heart. Chris would never have guessed the monster even possessed one.

_Thumpthump. Thumpthump._ Unintentionally, Chris found himself closing and opening his fist in time with the heartbeats. He stared down at his hand and could almost see the throbbing muscle sitting there on his palm. _Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Openshut. Openshut. _

His eyes returned to the demon's face, unaware. He gave a squeeze, felt the muscle fight against his grip. Suddenly, the smirk fell from the creature's face. With a sharp gasp, its hands flew to its bare chest, claws digging into the place where its heart pumped futilely against the palm of Chris's fist. The fireball extinguished itself in the demon's hand; smoke rose from its palm. As Chris closed his fist fully, the creature brought one hand to scrabble uselessly at its throat. A low gargle emitted from its lips.

Through everything, Chris heard only a heavy throbbing in his ears. His own heart pounded loudly against his ribcage so that he gasped for breath himself. In his closed fist, the heart beat faster and faster, weaker and weaker… he could almost hear it screaming, crying, pleading for mercy… he could feel its blood seep between his fingertips, rolling down the back of his hand… down his wrists… trickling off his elbow and onto the floor… drip-drip-drop, drip-drip-drop… the demon's eyes grew wider as it choked uselessly for air… its eyes glossed over—

The heart stilled in Chris's palm.

Suddenly, the demon's fingers went slack against its chest. For a few seconds, its knees wobbled before they fell out from under the body. It landed face up on the attic floor, glossy eyes wide as if still fighting for survival.

Trembling, Chris took a step towards the demon. From this perspective, it didn't look as intimidating or threatening as the witch had originally imagined. In fact, without taking into account the ebony eyes, it looked almost human. Slack, its mouth hung open; Chris had sucked the breath right out of it. As he stared, the teen felt goose bumps erupt along his arms. He was still shaking.

Numbly, he thought, _No mess… Mom will like that… no blood… no nothing. No one will ever know I did this…_ When the body began to melt, Chris was too dazed by his deed to feel any sort of shock or disgust. In only seconds the dead demon had vanished completely. Not a speck of crimson on the floor. Chris glanced at his hand. He expected a coat of slick blood but no—he had only imagined the heart pumping in the power of his fingertips.

Closing his eyes, Chris tried to expel the scene from his mind. He had never killed—_vanquished,_ he corrected himself quickly—a demon that way before; it felt so… real, so powerful. Shuddering, he swallowed back the bile that had risen to his throat.

He stood, eyes running along the floor towards Piper. They paused on a crumpled piece of paper caught between the broken table and the floor. When he took a step toward it, his knees buckled. He fell heavily to the floor without bothering to cushion his own descent. He barely noticed his fallen position and merely continued forward by crawling. He picked up the paper gingerly in his hands, smoothed it out, and tried to read. It took a while to focus his eyes and to read with such trembling hands.

"Summoning spell," he murmured without realizing how parched he sounded. "Guess we won't be needing that." He meant it as a joke, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. They lingered in the air long after he spoke them—an accusation. But of what? He had done nothing wrong. Nothing wrong.

Though he felt feint, Chris forced his nausea away and closed the distance between himself and his mother. Her eyes were still open, though clouded in pain. When he reached out to clasp her hand, she shrunk away from him as if frightened. Confusion colored his pale face. Voice splintered, he croaked, "Mom—?"

She closed her eyes; turned her face away in blatant disgust.

* * *

Piper watched with an emotion akin to horror that twisted deep in her gut. She saw Chris, eyes hard with grim determination, squeeze his hand into a callous fist. The long-time mother searched desperately for a hint of hesitation in her son's movements, but he showed not even a flicker of doubt. His expression was closed and unreadable as he watched the demon falter, stumble, collapse. She watched Chris stop the beating of the demon's heart, saw his face flush as he looked on emotionlessly, breath released in shallow gasps—

—and suddenly her son was gone. Suddenly, all Piper could see was a man she had known fifteen years ago: a twenty-two-year-old boy who had forced his way into her heart. A man she had come to love so deeply, a man she wished she never had to see again—not because she didn't miss him terribly but because she knew that she would be to blame for his return. Chris Perry, as she had once known him, was a man hardened by death and the hell that had been his life. If her son became that man, it was because she had failed as a mother to both of her boys. No, it could not happen.

And yet here, as hard as she had tried to protect her child, in this moment he had seemed to fall so naturally into the vanquish in a way only Chris Perry could. For years she and Leo had argued over how to raise their children. She had let Leo convince her in the end that their powers were a gift and to bind their babies' magic would be to deny them their heritage. At times like these, however, she despised herself for ever conceding.

What had her little boy become—a boy who could take the life of another creature, however evil, without a moment's doubt in his smooth action? _She _had done that to him. By raising him in this environment, _she_ had turned him into that.

When he reached out to touch her hand, the callousness in his eyes was gone, but the memory of it still remained etched into Piper's mind like a brand: evidence of the damage she had caused to her child's innocence. Chris Perry had traveled to the past to change what he had become, and here she had turned him into the very thing he himself had fought to avoid. He would have hated her.

In anguish, she shrunk away from his touch. If Chris knew the truth, he would loath to touch her.

* * *

Chris backed away, stunned. In a harsh whisper he questioned, "Mom…?" but she refused to respond to his despairing voice. She gave a sharp, mute jerk of her head and closed her eyes to stinging tears.

She forced shaky feet beneath without the offered assistance and stumbled towards the door. Behind her, Chris remained frozen as she exited the room. He was left kneeling on the floor in a puddle of spilt potion, alone and confused.

* * *

**Public Humiliation List**

**I tried to think of a way to start this little "game" of mine, and the perfect introduction fell right into my lap. I got a review that was a fabulous way to open the PHL, as it has recently been dubbed. The following is the review:**

_Birlygirl__ – I really do like your story, both this version and the last; I am anxiously waiting to see if Ms. Gowell will turn out to be a witch-and find out about Chris, of course!-as she did in the last story. I hope so, I loved that part. I would also like to see Wyatt and Chris lighten up on Prue a little...just a little, because sugary sweetness all the time like I see in some stories isn't really that realistic. _

_That being said, one of the main reasons I wanted to review was this: please keep in mind that some of us read these stories for pure entertainment; after an extremely stressful 10 hour day at work, I like to immerse myself in some fanfiction and forget my stresses, not go back to work as someone's English professor. Most writers will say that they write for themselves and no one else; just something to keep in mind._

**I would like to respond to this review. First, however, any of you reading this may assume that I dislike this review. You could not be further from the truth. What a wonderful review this was! Birlygirl told me exactly what she did like and what she didn't like. Granted, the latter wasn't **_**exactly**_** about the story itself – but hey, let's not be picky here. Anyway, needless to say, this did not sway me; otherwise there would be no PHL. Here are my thoughts on the matter:**

I would like to preface with – any writer who claims he doesn't want reviews because he "writes for himself" is either a liar or a fool. Strong language, perhaps, but my opinion nonetheless. What I ask for is constructive criticism. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't CC the very definition of FOR MYSELF. You know, to get better at writing and all that strange stuff. If I were doing it for the READER, I would have no need for reviews but BECAUSE I'm doing it for myself, THAT is why I need the critique.

Plus, sorry but – ten-hour work day? You want me to back down and go easy on you because of your long work hours? I don't deny they are draining, but do you think I'm not busy, too? What about my twelve-hour school day, not to mention one and a half hours on a bus each way. (That's three more hours, for those of you who are too lazy to do the math. Don't worry, I would fall under that category myself.) That's a total of fifteen hours, which doesn't include the homework, tests, exams, assignments, projects… But don't I continue posting? Yes, at times I go long stretches without an update, which I apologize for. But I _do_ get my chapters up. Do I not post? No, I will sit down and write something, edit it, edit it again, and again, and a fourth time to make sure it is up to par so that my readers get only the best from me. That takes significantly longer than it takes you to read, think for a bit, and then tell me your thoughts. I'm not asking for an "English professor," as you put it. I'm just asking for your thoughts.

I'm sorry if you feel that unfair, but I feel it unfair to work so hard to produce my best with nothing in return. Not just for myself. I feel that is the truth for EVERY writer, whether he believes the same or not. Those who write for themselves want the reviews. A writer who writes for himself but doesn't want the reviews is one who isn't serious about writing because he isn't serious about improving with his readers' help.

Which segues so beautifully into our infamous PHL list. Don't forget to look for you names, folks! Or maybe you'd better not…

A7xvampire, Adictd2life, Amantine, Andine, Angelkat2502, Anna Evans, Aussie Imp, Azari Kaiya Turner, Azureina, Blackangle2011, BluAngel18, BluJae, Book-zealot, Brokenwriter, Chrisfanatic3, Chrislover4ever, Ghost Whisper, HauntedPast, Jammie113, Juniper294, Klarstjerne, Kyubbi, Lily Iva Evans, Littlemissliketofight, LizaGirl, Lotus1974, Loved till it hurt, Ovoriel, Pyro007, SlashFreak101, Ssatsuki, Swooshh, Virgo4rmga, X-Rage

**No, I'm not going to tell you all not to review these people in order to get back at them. Come on, I know I've been awful with this list but I'm certainly not **_**that**_** cruel. In fact, I propose just the opposite! Clearly the names above are unclear on proper fanfiction etiquette. That's no surprise. The art of reviewing seems to have lost itself somewhere in history. I suggest **_**everyone**_** pop in to some of those stories and give a proper review or two. We learn by example, after all. **

**I thought about it, by the way, and decided that it wasn't fair to just publicize all the poor reviews (just "poor" is being rather nice). In the next chapter, I hope to post a list of people who have gone out of their way to write excellent reviews. Or perhaps I'll have a "Reviewer of the Chapter" every chapter. I'll think on that. Let's take a vote! Who thinks I should write a list and who prefers a more one-at-a-time form of acknowledgement?**

**If you don't know what constitutes an "excellent" review… Well, I suppose you'll find out in the next chapter. A hint: praising me to the high heavens, while a wonderful boost to the ego, does not in the slightest define a good review.**

**Speaking of excellent reviewers, a couple of you have probably noticed that I did not yet get back to you on your reviews. No worries, you are not abandoned. I could never abandon the likes of you. What sort of person would I be then? I haven't responded because I have not had the time to really sit down and give you the reply that you so well deserve. When I have a moment with a clear head, you will get your responses – and more.**

**On that note, I bid thee farewell.**

**

* * *

****Replies to Anonymous Reviews:**

Ariex – Does Piper take them out of school frequently? I wouldn't say _so_ frequently, no. Often enough that Chris would know to make up an excuse when she does come, though. After all, why else would she have come, if not for a demon? Otherwise, he would have known beforehand, wouldn't he? Could Chris just "lose" his book if he doesn't want to read it? Technically, yes. But then – what fun would that be for the readers? _(wink)_ Besides, then he will again have nothing to do and Piper will come after him the moment he tries to complain.

Pinkphoenix1985 – Don't worry, in this story Wyatt is _good_. When he says he's vanquishing demons, he is doing just that. However, feel free to worry for his safety. _(wink) _And yes, a number of people have pointed out the random "F"s. I'm trying to fix that for the next chapter. It's been annoying.


	10. 09 Of Revelations and Reality

**-Of Revelations and Reality-**

_"Every death leaves a scar, and every time a child laughs it starts healing."  
__–Eli Wiesel_

* * *

(Monday, October 14, 2019)

Earlier, Piper had been adamant that her children return to school after the vanquish, but she knew that now she did not possess the presence of mind to drive them anywhere. She could barely even think straight, and how would she drive with hands that trembled as hers did now? Instead, she walked numbly to her kitchen, past the countertop and the oven. She fell heavily into a chair at the table, barely aware of her surroundings. Her head spun with a tornado of various snippets that left too quickly for her to identify. Cooking often helped her relax, but that was the furthest thing from her mind. Right now, she knew anything she tried to prepare would likely burn to a crisp.

* * *

Already thirty minutes had passed without a sound from the attic. Wyatt had spent that time telling Prue different stories of his own botched attempts to vanquish demons. As he had hoped, the tactic calmed her significantly; she even laughed at the last one. The color had mostly returned to her cheeks; her eyes glittered again, reintroduced to their previous luster. But now _Wyatt_ was getting worried. What was taking so long? If Mom and Chris were still fighting, why was the manor so deathly silent?

When he finished the next story, he took a deep breath and quietly sent out his whitelighter senses. Like snakes, the tendrils probed through the house. They crept under closed doors, where the soft smell of familiarity greeted them. The hallway upstairs was laced with pieces of everyone. It stunk of sweat, frustration, and boredom; a tangle of salt and an off-putting sweetness. The tendrils were quick to shrink back and seep beneath the closed door one flight up. The attic tasted of a battle long since determined. The air had grown stale with the bitter stench of death—but whose? They crept closer to the wrinkled atmosphere where a life had recently been extinguished. It smelled like a bouquet of decaying roses, of a bitter and unfamiliar aftertaste. There was the faint lingering of fear, but it tasted arrogant, too. Immediately, Wyatt knew: nobody he loved had died today. The tendrils curled in anger. Wyatt sat worrying about Mom and Chris, and here they had not even possessed the decency to announce their survival!

With renewed vigor, they resumed their search. They flew down the steps and burst violently into each room. The tangy scent of overripe oranges, extra sweet, nearly overpowered Wyatt's senses. Beneath that lay a hint of fresh basil, the new-page smell of a locked diary with wet ink—but Prue's bedroom was empty.

Beyond that, the conflicting combination of sweet and sour; the bitter taste of aftershave and lilacs not quite ready to wilt; sweat mingled with the fresh just-out-of-the-shower smell of a bar of clean soap; burnt toast and a spinach casserole cooked to perfection. The tendrils bypassed their parents' room, too. Nobody was there.

They sped from there to the next door, which stood partially ajar. A few smells wafted out from it, like—_whoa!_ They backtracked away from the bathroom door, but the stench lingered still and would for some time. The next door, his own room, was devoid of all smell. And beyond that—beyond that, the odor of old socks met the tendrils at the threshold, tainted with the sweetness of a vague sensitivity. There was just a touch of pepper, as if someone had sprinkled it on top as an afterthought.

More importantly, though, was the smell of deflated determination; of blood that had barely dried, neglected and unwashed. Those smells, simultaneously familiar and unknown, were in such contradiction that it meant only one thing. Only humanity could pose paradox: Someone was in the room. That someone stunk of burnt pepper from long ago and of the smoke from a recent battle and of tremors, unending. Chris.

The tendrils diffused back to Wyatt, in the process locating the familiar oatmeal-raisin, coffee grinds, and lit explosives from the direction of the kitchen. Both Chris and Mom were healthy and alive, yet neither had possessed the decency to inform Wyatt. Instead, they allowed him to sit there and worry for half an hour. Well, they would certainly get an earful if _he_ had anything to say about it.

This time, when he stood, Prue allowed him to with much protest. She did look up with concern, but he quickly allayed her fears with sincere assurances that all was well and the battle had been won. Accepting this, she watched him head toward the kitchen. His frown was set in determination, intent upon demanding an explanation from his mother. The moment he entered the room, however, all thought of words tumbled from his mind. He noticed first what was missing: the aromas of Piper poring over the stovetop, face red from rising steam. Whenever Piper was in the kitchen, the oven was on; there was the fresh smell of a mouth-watering promise to come. But now—nothing. Her back to him, Piper sat with her head resting against crossed arms on the table. Her shoulders shook in a way Wyatt had never seen from her.

In a strangled voice, he whispered, "Mom?"

He expected her to sound as she looked, though he could not fathom the cause. However, her voice was deceptively clear when she said, "Not now, Wyatt." Before he could protest, she added softly, almost begging, "_Please._"

Head bowed, the boy backed out of the room. He could not understand what had happened to shake such a rational, cool-headed woman; a part of him didn't want to find out.

* * *

The hours passed like minutes, and yet to Chris every minute slowed to an hour's length. He sat silently on his bed, legs crossed, eyes on the wall. Over and over the scene replayed itself in his mind. What had he done wrong? Why had Piper looked at him with such horror, with such utter disgust? What could he have done to make her turn away from him in a way she never had before? He felt like a child, rejected by his mother, refused her love—but _why_? What had he done to deserve such shunning?

Blank eyes replayed the scene on his wall: the confusion in the demon's eyes when the cornered teen stepped forward, the shock on its face, the realization that dawned once it was too late, the dullness of death seizing it. And all of that, all of it… _I didn't do that, did I?_ he wondered through the haze. But he had, though the proof of his involvement was not on his hands and never had been.

His eyes gravitated towards his palms, open and accusing on his lap. He stared as hard as he could, fiercely enough that he started to see what he knew was there—the last warm blood of his enemy.

"But… it was self-defense…" His words rebounded within his empty bedroom, returning to him. Even to his own ears they lacked conviction. He curled his fingers over the imaginary blood to deny its existence, but it refused to allow its only witness such a mercy. Crimson dripped between his fingertips and onto the back of his hand. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't see the discoloration extend further. When he looked again, the scene had vanished, though the fear it had instilled very much remained.

_Self-defense, it was only self-defense._ He only did what had to be done, didn't he? After all, his mom's life had been at stake. He had no other choice. With the potion destroyed, he had to vanquish the threat in any way possible. His quick thinking had saved his mom's life!

But if that was truly the case, why had Piper looked at him with such distant disgust? Why could she not bear to make eye contact? Why could she not stand to see him, to have him touch her?

Hours passed in this state of ambivalence. Finally, Chris managed to tear his gaze from the blank wall, and looked over at his bedside table. His digital clock told him that five and a half hours had disappeared since Piper had picked up her children from school: four o' clock in the afternoon. What had happened to his time?

The boy released a heavy sigh and slid from his bed. His bare feet padded out of his room to the cold, wooden floor of the hallway. His feet tingled from disuse, sending up shards of pain that diminished a bit more with each next step. At the top of the steps, he paused, listening. He heard nothing, so he tiptoed down the stairs, skipping the fourth step, which he knew – from experience – creaked. He froze when his foot landed softly on the bottom step. He sucked in a breath and tried to strain his ears to hear the hushed voices of his parents in the kitchen. They were talking about something serious, something they clearly didn't want to be overheard.

Naturally, Chris crept closer.

"—_saw _it, Leo," Piper was emphasizing gravely. "I saw _him_."

Obviously Leo did not need to ask who "he" was, but Chris was dying to know. He had a gut feeling this "he" was somehow connected to Piper's reaction in the attic.

Gently, Leo reasoned, "We knew this was bound to happen eventually, Piper. After all, they are in essence the same person."

"No." Chris could imagine her giving a fervent shake of her head, effectively cutting the very thought from her mind. "This was _different_." Before Leo could argue, she added, "I don't know _how_, okay? He just was. It was like Chris was _here_." Chris froze at the sound of his name. So his instincts were correct, then; this _did_ have to do with him. He leaned forward, desperate to hear more. Ignorant of the eavesdropping ear, Piper continued, "The other Chris, I mean."

Chris's heart pounded in his ears, but he forced himself to take a breath and process what he had heard. Just another by the same name? No, something told Chris it was more than that. The "other" Chris? His namesake maybe? But how could Piper get spooked about a likeness of her son to a man she had never met?

An icy cold doused his chest in anger; the feeling proceeded down to the pit of his stomach, warming and then beginning to burn in hot flames. His mother had left him feeling like a demon she despised, running to her husband while he got left behind, rejected. Why—why was this at all fair? Why did _she_ get to be angry when he had done nothing wrong? For crying out loud, he had _saved her life._ Did that count for _nothing_?

Eyes hard, Chris revealed himself by stepping out into the kitchen. In a voice that wavered, he demanded, "Who's 'the other Chris'?"

A heavy silence descended upon the occupants of the room. Through wide eyes, Piper spun to stare at her son. Her face was pale and drawn; she looked physically ill. Leo looked better, but grave. His eyes were haunted, filled with a permanent longing for something he could never have. He was the most clear-headed in the room, though, and was, therefore, the first to react. He stepped forward to put a hand on Chris's shoulder, but the teen immediately shrugged off the attempt at comfort. He glared acidly at his father. Backing away, he repeated, "Who is he?"

The room was silent, frozen in time. Leo stood between his wife and his son as if to hold together the rift that had so quickly been torn down the middle. He glanced back and forth between the two, looking undecided. At length, he moved to stand beside the horrified form of his wife. He pulled her close in an attempt to pass his strength to her. He wrapped one arm around her shoulder, pressed his lips to her ear, and murmured softly, "He should know."

As if slapped, she jerked away from her husband. "Leo!" she declared in horror. Had he so easily forgotten the reason they had kept this from their children? Perhaps she had been foolish in letting him convince her not to bind the kids' powers, but she would _not_ let him get the better of her again—not for an occurrence of this importance. "They can't know," she breathed out in a rush.

"Can't know what?" Chris interrupted impatiently. One way or the other, he would find out what his parents were hiding, especially if it had something to do with him, which he more than suspected. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, digging into his thighs in his rigid stance.

For the present, Piper ignored Chris, or perhaps didn't hear him at all past the blood thrumming in her ears. Almost in a panic, she insisted, "Leo, you _know_ why we can't tell them. How can you even _think_ about doing that to them? And what about Wyatt? If he knew, it would just kill him."

Wyatt was involved, too?

"Piper, they'll find out either way," Leo reasoned, His eyes glided to his son, crinkling in a half-smile. His expression had a faraway feeling, as if he were recalled a myriad of relevant memories. At length, he said quietly, "Our boys are resourceful like that." He returned his gaze to Piper, capturing her eyes in his, holding them, reassuring them, calming them. They made her a silent promise: No matter what happened this afternoon, they would get through it. Together, they would overcome this ordeal, just as they did all the others. "Wouldn't you rather if _we_ told them and not that they find out some other way?" In his eyes she read what he left unsaid: _They would hate us_. That thought she could not bear; she did not think she could live with Chris hating her more than he already should.

It was with the greatest reluctance that Piper turned to address her son. Eyes glimmering with stubbornly unshed tears, she grasped Leo's arm for support. He pulled her closer, the meaning of the silent gesture clear: he was here for her. "Get your brother," Piper instructed hoarsely, "This concerns him, too."

Chris rushed to do as he was told. He flew up the stairs in mere seconds, forgetting, even, that he could orb. Impatiently, he pounded his fist against Wyatt's closed door. It seemed to take ages before Wyatt responded with an irritated, "What?"

In one breath Chris ordered, "Mom wants to talk to us, so get out of there!"

Through the door Chris heard the bedsprings creak and then footsteps thumping across the floor. Everything happened slowly, as if Wyatt were deliberately trying to annoy his little brother because he knew how much Chris wanted him to hurry. Chris had half a mind to just orb into the room, but Wyatt rarely tolerated such a blatant breach of privacy. Even in his eagerness, the younger Halliwell would not forget that. Finally, just as he began to contemplate disregarding self-preservation and barge into the room at the risk of his brother's wrath, the door opened. Wyatt poked his head out into the hall.

"_What_?" he asked in annoyance. "I have stuff to do."

"I _told_ you already," Chris retorted with as similar exasperation. He folded his arms over his shirt and frowned disapprovingly. "Mom and Dad have something important to tell us. She says you have to be there."

From all the way down the hall, Prue's door flew open. Head poking out, she called to them, "What's going on?"

Wyatt, who was feeling rather generous with his sister after their afternoon together, explained, "Mom wants us." Simultaneously, in a significantly less charitable mood, Chris snapped, "Nothing's going on." He threw a sour look at his brother.

"Mom and Dad want _me and Wyatt_," he corrected meaningfully. "You have nothing to do with this."

A flash of hurt darted through Prue's eyes. Extinguishing it quickly, she cried, "Why can't _I_ come?"

"Because," he snorted, and left it at that.

When he and Wyatt passed by her door, she jumped in front of Chris and glared hotly. He only rolled his eyes and made to shove her aside but she pushed back, bracing herself against the wall. "It's not _fair_. Stop being a bully, Chris. I want to know. It's not fair to keep secrets."

"Mom said only—" _This is such a waste of time,_ he realized. It would take all evening to get Prue to leave him alone, and meanwhile Piper might change her mind. As it was, she didn't seem to keen on explaining herself. Could Chris risk that possibility coming to fruition? Heaving an exasperated sigh, he muttered, "_Fine_. You can listen if Mom and Dad say you can." Properly satisfied, she let her brothers pass, falling into step behind Wyatt.

They trooped down like soldiers in war. From the back Prue wondered, "Why wouldn't Mom and Dad let me know, too?" Chris ignored her.

* * *

When all three kids marched into the kitchen, Piper stared darkly at her youngest child. She started to tell Prue to leave—no sense it making it worse than it had to be—but Leo stopped her with a gently squeeze on her shoulder. The implications were clear: they _all_ deserved to know. She closed her mouth reluctantly. It seemed, as much as she wished she could, it was impossible to lessen the blow. And she had to wonder—would any of them forgive her after this? She glanced at each face. Chris, eager but trying to hide it; Wyatt, confused but intrigued; Prue, inquisitive and curious. All wanted to know what their parents had to say. Piper tried to estimate how long it would take for those expressions to be wiped off their faces, for them to be replaced with anger and disgust.

Chris felt he had certainly waited more than long enough for his explanation, and made that perfectly clear by demanding, "So?"

Wringing her hands together, Piper suggested, "Maybe you three should sit down—"

Flatly, her middle child said, "_Mom_." No more delays. He didn't want coddling; he wanted _answers_.

"Okay," she sighed. "Okay." Her hands trembled as she stared at her boy. The lines between him and his other self blurred as they had in the attic. This time, she saw him in the stubborn chin, the colored cheeks, the resolution in the teen's eyes. She could see so vividly the way he had once looked at her when stripped of all that—of his security. She could recall his shy vulnerability on the day she had found out he was her baby; the way he had looked at her as if he wanted to smile or to reassure her, but was afraid of her reaction. She saw her son—both of him—and that made the talk that much more difficult. "About a year before you were born…"

Her heart throbbed painfully at the memory she long ago tried to bury. Speaking became nearly impossible while she stared right at her son's face, so she closed her eyes. Clear as day, an image of her son burst into her mind, a picture from when he was a healthy young man saving the world. He watched her from behind her eyelids, as if a fourth curious party to the conversation. But Piper could not do this. For all that fifteen years had passed, it was still her son's death. Her throat closed, barring words from laying plans to escape.

After a moment of silence, Leo gave her shoulder another encouraging squeeze and spoke up himself. "About a year before you were born, a man came to us—from the future."

Prue's eyes widened in delight while both her brothers merely raised eyebrows in query. By now they were so used to such outrageous phenomenon that a comment like that did not garner as much surprise as it probably should have. Their curiosity came not from the revelation itself but from the peculiar fact that their parents had never thought to mention this man before. Obviously, he had made his mark on the family.

"That man"—Leo's eyes bore into Chris—"was you."

This time Chris did react, blinking silently in astonishment. The heaviness that invaded the room settled over its inhabitants with satisfied finality. Chris stared from his father's determined stare to his mother's drawn face. At length, he repeated, "Me?" as if the very idea were impossible. "I traveled through time?"

"You did," Piper answered softly. "You came back because something had happened that needed fixing." Pride laced her tone as she murmured, "You came back to save our family, to save the entire world."

Well, if _that_ did not sound like something out a fairytale, then Chris decided he must have actually gone insane this time around. Save the world? Second child, second rate in the power department, always over-thinking everything—_that_ was who the world picked as its savior? It really must have been doomed, then, for it to choose so foolishly. "But what about Wyatt?" he protested. "Or you or one of the aunts? Why would _I_ go?"

Piper bit her lip and glanced at Leo. She wondered how much they should reveal, how much because _too _much, how much before their children could not handle what they were presented. Understanding her hesitation, Leo answered for her: "They couldn't. Nobody could except for you, Chris."

Chris folded his arms, not even close to satisfied. "Why not?" he asked again. "Wyatt is twice-blessed. If anyone could do it, he could."

Wyatt squirmed in discomfort. On the one hand, he hated when Chris compared their powers. On the other hand, a part of him agreed. He was the oldest; it was his job to protect his younger siblings. Why would he not have gone?

"Because," Leo sighed, "Wyatt was the one who needed saving."

Wyatt's head spun. Something happened to him so far in the past, and yet it had taken a travel through time to stop it? Why had nobody back then been able to help him? What had happened to him to affect the future to make the entire world in need of saving?

Before the eldest could voice the question, Prue piped up for the first time, "What was wrong with him?"

Piper averted her gaze, lips pursed. Leo, however, looked directly at Wyatt, his eyes offering a silent apology, as he answered, "He turned evil."

The air deflated from the boy's lungs in a silent tremor. Somehow, with those three words, he felt himself go instantly numb. His heart thrummed loudly, a steady and forceful pounding in his head. His ears rang; he felt feint. Beside him, Chris instinctively reached out a hand to steady him. If his brother had not been there, Wyatt was sure he would have fallen.

At this moment, though, he could not stand for Chris to touch him. Chris had gone to the past to stop his brother from turning evil—to stop _him_, _Wyatt_, from turning evil. How evil had he been that Chris could not deal with it in his own time? What atrocities had Wyatt committed that had forced his brother to go to such great lengths in order to save him? And to save the world! What had he done? He had turned evil and brought the whole planet down with him in the process. How could Chris beside him and offer a hand after the bombshell their parents had just dropped on them?

In Piper's ears, the silence rang like an accusation. She could hear the voice of her long-gone child. An unmoving demand—_What have you done to me, Piper?_ Worse, even, because Chris never would have aired out his frustrations. They would have gone unvoiced while he used his anger to fuel his demon hunts. Instead, he would have fixed her with a cool, distant stare, as if he had never seen her before in his life. A look that had always sent chills trembling up her spine. She could see it now so clearly. Finally, when she could no longer take the silence, she begged, "Chris…"

For a moment the teenager said nothing. He looked from his mom to his dad to his brother's averted gaze. He tried to bring everything to order in his mind. Pensively, he ran a heavy hand through his unkempt hair. "Wyatt was evil," he stated, wincing in sympathy as he saw his brother's shoulders stiffen. "I—or another me—went back to save him, to stop him from turning evil. Obviously it worked or else…" He did not finish his sentence, didn't have to. They all knew the "or else" of the statement.

"You did," Piper said to him. She seemed more easily able to speak about the man's heroism and did so with pride. "You saved him when he couldn't save himself. You—the other you—wanted Wyatt to grow up _happy_. That's why he did all this. That is why he gave up his life to come back to us. He _wanted_ this." She looked to Wyatt, eyes pleading, but with his eyes on the floor he missed the imploring look she shot his way. One word kept ringing in his ears.

Dead. His brother had died.

To be honest, Chris was not surprised to hear his other self had lost his life in his endeavor. When he looked into his mother's eyes and beheld the anguish that clouded them, he almost could have guessed the outcome. He recognized the emotion as the one that had pained her upstairs in the attic, which served as a reminder of his original question.

"But why…" he began, "why were you so mad at me upstairs when I reminded you of him? Did you…" He swallowed hard, licking dry lips, but forced himself to finish, "hate me back then?"

Piper started, eyes wide in surprise. She shook her head vehemently, dismayed that she had let her child think that for even a moment. "No, sweetheart, never. We could never hate you." She pushed away the guilt of her past distrust, of her loathing, of her spiteful words to her whitelighter. She had not known. Back then, she had not known. How could she?

"Then why—"

"It's because he was different than you," Leo interjected. "In essence you two are the same person: You're one spirit but two souls—two minds, two sets of memories. Experiences are what make up a person, and since you have grown up in a different world you shouldn't logically have the same personality."

Softly, Prue recited, "Nature versus nurture."

Leo threw a glance at Prue, who had been left largely unnoticed for a time. "Exactly."

"But when you vanquished that demon," Piper went on bravely, "you looked and acted so much like him… I just…" Tears stung her eyes. She closed them and expelled a slow breath.

Barely audible, Chris realized, "You still miss him."

After a couple of seconds, Piper opened her eyes, more composed this time. "Not in your place," she insisted immediately. "Like your father said, you are two different people. I could never replace one of you with the other. It just… hurt to see him in you when we tried so hard to stop you from growing up into someone that needed to be him." Pausing, she asked, "Do you understand that?"

Chris thought for a moment. "He grew up in an awful world that needed him to become a certain type of person to survive. You don't want me to be like that because that means I had to live through something as horrible as he did."

For the first time since the bombshell landed, Wyatt's voice invaded the room. Softly, he corrected Chris, "Something as horrible as me." Chris whipped around to stare at his brother, whose eyes were dark and so weary, ridden with guilt.

Firmly, Piper countered, "_No_, Wyatt, not you. It was not you; what happened was not in any way your fault. We saved you; Chris saved you. You aren't that person anymore. You never were, not in this timeline." But Wyatt was clearly having none of it. He turned away, expression hard, almost angry.

With less warmth than their mother, Chris snorted, "Haven't you been _listening_?" Surprised at the sharpness in his brother's tone, Wyatt looked over at him. He had not wanted any pity, but getting none still through him off. He had half-expected to need to yell at the pitying stares, but Chris sounded far from sympathetic. "That Chris wasn't me because he lived in a different world," he explained. "Obviously the same goes for you. I know you think you're above the rules, Wyatt," he joked, "but the time-travel rules apply to everyone. If I don't get to take credit for all the good stuff my other self did, then why should you get to take the blame for all the bad stuff _your_ other self did?"

Piper had tensed through the quasi-speech, wondering how badly it would hurt Wyatt. It came as a surprise to her when Wyatt's eyes softened slightly. He tried to offer a half smile. It came out more like a grimace, but at least it was something. Both parents let out their own relief in the form of a conjoined sigh. The tension of the moment ebbing, Piper demanded, "Why don't you listen when _I _say it?"

Wyatt was by no means all right and still shaken up, but his almost-smile remained, wavering but there. "Sorry, Mom," he said hollowly, "teenager's prerogative. Don't take it personally." Piper recognized it as a feeble attempt at a joke, however poor, and smiled at his forced resilience. "Still," he continued solemnly, returning his attention to his brother, "I feel like I should do something after all this…"

Chris, who was unwilling to let the discussion get serious again, cocked a smirk. "Well, I wouldn't say no to you doing my chores for the next few mo—" He ducked just in time for a wooden mixing spoon, swaddled in orbs, to go flying over his head. When he looked up, Wyatt was almost grinning. That was much better.

Forgetting to admonish her boys, Piper watched their antics with a smile. Through all these years, she had deluded herself into thinking the question would never come up, the truth would never be revealed. Only in those dark moments of the night where she had awoken, breathing heavily, to nightmares of secrets uncovered and doors unlocked, had she taken a moment to let her imagination run. Never in a million years, in all the times she had thought about it, had she ever expected the conversation to go as well as it had. The children would certainly still need time to adapt, but they were stronger than she gave them credit for. While Wyatt had been severely shaken by the news, he had accepted it more readily than Piper could have hoped. Eventually Wyatt would learn to cope with the facts, especially with Chris there to help him, as he was already.

When Leo's arm snaked around her, she snuggled into his embrace, smiling against his chest. "Leo," she murmured, arms folding across his back, "I love our children."

Relief made everything funnier than it was, which had Leo chuckling aloud. Against his chest, Piper felt the deep buzz of laughter trembling against her cheek. She let out a sigh, closed her eyes, and gratefully listened to her sons' banter echo in the room.

* * *

**Last time, I'm sure most of you remember, we had the Public Humiliation List, which was a tad controversial I found. Some people even felt they couldn't read the story anymore. To those of you who feel that way, I'll tell you – you should definitely do what you think is right. If you think you can't read anymore because of it, I'm sorry you feel that's the decision you have to make. Please, then, do so. I would hate to have anyone compromise his morals or beliefs. I'm sorry it caused that, but I'm not sorry for writing it.**

**Anyway, I realized that to write only that list would be unfair. That's the "bad" and now it's time for the "good." That way we balance it out. :) I'll do these one at a time so that each reader gets the commendation he or she deserves. (Commendation – is that a word?)**

**There wasn't much debate of whom to start with, actually. has helped me work on BLD since I started revamping the story. She has offered helpful advice, given great ideas, and – most importantly – been honest through every step. If she sees something she doesn't like, she jumps to mention it! When she tells me she likes something I've written, I know I can trust that because I know she wouldn't hesitate to tell the truth. She's also been a great friend through everything. Thanks so much, Sam.**

**And now a bit of shameless advertising: if you haven't already read her story, Brewing Storms and Burning Bridges, you really should. It's a great Harry Potter/Charmed crossover. If you like my Chris, you should see hers!**

**

* * *

****Replies to Reviews:**

Katawat – Thank you. Your penname sounds familiar. Did you read A Different Ending? (I should know that without asking, I know. Sorry!)

Blue Darkness – Okay, I'm cheating. I'm being lazy by responding to your review here, instead of replying properly as I do to non-anonymous reviews. (Ah, I'm pointing out a personality fault of mine there. _wink_) Your hypothesis may be correct; that you will find out as the story continues. I will, however, correct you in that whatever your hypothesis, you did _not_ get it from the original draft of BLD. This aspect of the story was not in existence in the first draft.  
You mentioned that the point of view seemed awkward at one point. I'll try to work on that, though I'm not _exactly_ sure what you mean by "awkward." But I know the feeling of being unable to express what felt off, only that something did.  
You would freeze, too?—So would I! It seemed so strange to me that the characters on the show so rarely froze up. I don't get it. Just because they have powers does not make them less terrified when there is a burning ball of fire literally flying at their faces. Or maybe I'm just more of a coward than I thought. w_ink_  
The trouble with writing that scene from only Chris's perspective would be that the reader would then see it only from that perspective. Which means the reader would believe it to be true, and have it in his head to settle for all that time it takes me to get the next chapter up to clarify. By the point, the reader will already actually believe that, which makes it all the more difficult to introduce the truth. The trouble with readers is that we tend to innately trust the author, so there would be no reason for anyone to doubt the truth in what I've written. Which would anger many people—"why would Piper act like that to her own son?!" "You've written her so horribly!" etc., etc., etc. Phew, that was quite a dissertation there. I should try to work on being a bit more concise. Anyway, I hope it brought to light a few things. :)

Sjsnugglebug – This isn't a response to a review. I just wanted to let you know that I'm still alive and have been meaning to email you with all the latest updates. It's just been pretty busy with the holidays and getting kidnapped and all (don't ask). I will try my best to get to your email as soon as is humanly possible. Right now, I had the option of responding or posting, and I figured you would rather the post anyway. (Also, I'm so excited to read your next chapter… and I haven't forgotten that I still owe you a review. I think I may just combine them. We'll see.)

Artsfan – Likewise, not a response. Just a quick note to let you know that I do plan to get to your email as well. I'm terribly sorry to both of you for falling off the map like this. You're both saved in my inbox, waiting for me to find the time to give you each the updates you deserve.


	11. 10 Of Classes and Cousins

**- Of Classes and Cousins -**

_Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal. – Bishop Robert South_

* * *

(Year: 1998)

"How did he die?"

"Gunshot, I heard."

A nasally voice cleared its throat. "Was he involved in—?"

"No, no, none of that ugly business. Just another case of the wrong place at the wrong time. They say he got in the middle of something between a cop and some other guy. The guy pulled his gun, and…" The voice trailed off meaningfully.

Carmen had curled herself behind silky plum curtains that were draped to the ground, billowing on top of itself in folds. Each full length window was covered by similar fabric. The girl had sought one in the corner of the main room, where the people huddled in small crowds, gossiping to one another where they thought nobody could hear.

"How are his kids holding up? Must me tough on them, especially the young on—Carrie, right? Poor thing." There were murmurs of agreement from the others in the group.

"He was a good man, I heard. Real good father and all. It's a shame he hadda go."

More murmurs.

"Wrong place at the wrong time. Always comes down to stuff like that in the end, don't it?"

Carmen closed her eyes, tried to ignore the voices, hugged her knees to her chest in a vain attempt to warm the chill that made her blood run cold.

* * *

(Tuesday, October 15, 2019)

Chris rose from a restless night's sleep. Pain had leaked into his dreams the night before, had kept him from sleeping peacefully. When he rolled to sit up, bruised shoulders burned in protest. It took several minutes to coax his exhausted muscles into action. Finally, he extracted himself from the covers and stumbled over to his mirror. He had expected the sight, but it still made him wince when the mirror mocked him with various bumps and shades speckling his torso. and scratches had left dried blood on his chest and around his navel. Oh, how he loathed demons, if for no other reason than because of the wake-up call he received the morning after an attack.

He shut his eyes against the picture the glass flaunted. Expelling a hiss of breath from between his teeth, he muttered, "This just _sucks_."

It took ages to pull a shirt over his head and change into a pair of pants for school. When he glanced at the mirror a second time, the image had improved somewhat, with only the bruises on his face still visible. He drew up a hand to give some semblance of order to his tousled hair, but gave up without success a minute or two later. Emerald eyes stared sharply at the glass. They narrowed in concentration as he summoned from his reserves of power the strength to tap into his magic. It was a lot more difficult than it would have been after a proper night's sleep and at first even trying made him feel light-headed. Finally, though, the shimmer of his powers ghosted over his face and seeped beneath his shirt. The paleness of his skin faded into a light blue, glowing. When it faded, all bruises had disappeared. Some color had even returned to his cheeks.

"Better," he affirmed, nodding to his reflection. It still hurt, but the glamour made certain no one else would know.

He took his time climbing down the stairs, too drained of magic already to orb. When he crept into the kitchen, he was surprised to find himself the first one of his siblings in. Prue made it a rule to beat her brothers every morning, but Chris could only assume the excitement from the previous night had gotten to her. It was, after all, the first time she had faced down a fireball.

When he lowered himself into a chair, Piper turned from the pan at the stove. Along with her "Mornin', kiddo," she offered a sympathetic wince.

A few minutes passed in silence, save the sizzle and crackle from the frying pan. Chris closed his eyes as he listened. He had to shift his position repeatedly to remain comfortable. The fire snapped at the bottom of the pan; Piper's spatula clinked against the inside as she scraped it along the bottom. The cupboard door creaked as it was opened, and then thumped shut. Then more clinking, but Chris was too unfocused to pinpoint what had caused the sound. While a part of him wanted desperately to crawl back beneath the covers, his louder half argued that even his current actions were those of unacceptable weakness. The inner debate raged, serving only to fuel Chris's headache as he endeavored to silence both sides.

Finally, a shadow over his eyes made him forget the argument and look up. Piper was standing over him, smiling in that too-cheerful-for-morning way that Chris despised. The boy could only glower at the intruding disposition.

"Breakfast—have some," she offered, setting down a plate in front of him and scraping half of the scrambled eggs onto it. "It will make you feel better."

"I doubt it," he grumbled, though he obediently took up the fork she handed him. Although the very act of chewing pained him, stomach protested more forcefully than muscles. He took small bites and chewed carefully, but still managed to get himself through only half the plate. By that point his stomach had quieted enough for the protest of his bruises to be heard. Moaning under his breath, he pushed the food away and rested his head in its place.

From across the room Piper asked, "Sore?" and winced for him when he nodded against the finger-paint-stained surface of the table. After a moment of sympathy, she offered, "Well, no pain no gain, right?"

Chris barely mustered the energy required to raise his head the few inches it took to glower at his mother's turned back. Oh, as if _that_ made everything all better. When he was a child, she had always known the magic words to make his boo-boos go away. Perhaps old age had stolen her touch. 'No pain no gain'—what had she been _thinking_?

He gave a start of surprise when, without turning to face him, Piper casually remarked, "Keep scowling like that and I'll cut out those eyes of yours for my next potion. I daresay green looks good on you—you should _keep it_."

"But–how—?" Chris spluttered.

As if in disappointment, Piper sighed, "I _always_ know, Chris." Casting a sidelong glance in his direction, she added, "Haven't you figured that out by now?"

Chris dumped his head back onto his folded arms. Careful to keep his expression neutral, he injected as much irritation into his voice when he grumbled, "Yeah, yeah."

She let that one go.

Eventually, Wyatt stumbled into the kitchen with Prue only moments behind him. Both attempted to find their way to the table blindly, and somehow succeeded with minimal damage to themselves and their surroundings. By the time each one found a vacant chair (Wyatt accidentally chose Chris's lap at first, though the younger was sure it was on purpose), Piper had already dished out a plate of scrambled eggs to each of them.

Wyatt immediately perked up at the sight of food, snatching up a forkful and shoveling it between his lips. Only when three quarters of his plate had been cleared did he pause for a breath, swallowing the air with significantly less gusto than he had the breakfast.

He took a moment to watch his mother, who had begun to clear away the preparations from breakfast. She filled the pan to its rim with soapy water, wiped down the countertop with a damp dishtowel, and returned the carton of eggs to the second shelf in the fridge. By the time she turned around to face her children, Wyatt's face had set itself into the most pitiful expression it had available.

Piper sighed and picked up her dishtowel. She could guess what was coming next. As if she didn't know that expression well enough by now, after nearly eighteen years.

"Mom," Wyatt said, blinking his lashes sorrowfully, "can I stay home today?" He drew a pout from his lips and then added, "I had a nightmare last night. About—you know—the other me…"

Eyes wide, Chris stared at his brother, too shocked even to remember to breathe until his chest gave a sharp squeeze of reminder. That was _low_. Mom's emotional breakdown had been only a number of hours ago, a release of fifteen years worth of pent-up mourning. Had he no consideration for how difficult last night had been? Then again, if _Wyatt_ could get away with it…

Innocently, Chris remarked, "So did I. About how the other me went back to the past all alone and… stuff like that." Although he knew that mentioning his future self's death would likely aid his cause, he couldn't bring himself to utter the words to his own mother. Last night he had seen in her eyes, in her tears, how much the memory pained her, even after all these years; and could not find it in his heart to bring that up again.

"Nice try." Piper frowned with real disapproval in her eyes, more genuine than he could ever remember. "I'm not about to cave just because the pain of last night is still so fresh." She gave each boy a pointed stare, as if an indication of the line she had expected them to know better than to cross. Disappointment colored the air between her and her boys. They had the presence of mind, at least, to feel slightly ashamed for their thoughtless endeavor. "Don't think I can't still tell when I'm being manipulated. Now go get dressed." She had not yelled, but Chris could tell the good humor that started the morning had evaporated. He was beginning to regret Wyatt's foolish example.

Chris, who had done so before leaving his room, slumped deeper into his chair while his brother, grumbling under his breath, stood and left the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later, clothed in a rumpled shirt and finally more awake, though reluctantly so.

"By the way," Piper remarked to her children as Wyatt reclaimed his seat, "I won't be here when you come home this afternoon. Your aunts and I are going out later today."

At this point, expecting an interruption from her youngest, Piper paused. Even Wyatt and Chris turned toward her without thinking, but Prue didn't seem to notice. Cheek pressed against her fist, she poked at her eggs with a fork, shifting the mess into a pile on one side and then scraping it to the other. After a stretch of silence, she finally noticed and looked up, surprised to find three pairs of eyes watching her. "What?" she asked rather defensively.

"Are you all right, Prue?" Piper asked before either of the boys could ask in a less-than-gentle way.

"Fine," Prue said, but didn't elaborate. She went back to fiddling with her food.

Watching her daughter for a few more seconds, Piper continued, "Lea and Katie will be spending the afternoon here until we get back."

"Sounds fun," Chris deadpanned.

Again, Piper said nothing, eyes focused on Prue. She set down the dishtowel she had been folding and unfolding between her fingers and said, "Prue, are you feeling okay?" Crossing the room, she pressed the back of her hand to her daughter's forehead. "No fever," she concluded, "but you're still kind of pale." She released the girl and took a step back to examine her with a critical eye. "What's bothering you, sweetie? Is it your stomach, your throat? Are you nauseous? You haven't eaten a thing."

Without looking up, Prue stabbed one of her eggs and popped it into her mouth. "There," she said, though her tone lacked the malice she had intended.

When Piper refused to back down, the girl repeated, "I'm really fine, Mom," and then in a much quieter voice added, "Just had a bad dream." Her eyes avoided her mother's searching stare as it roved over her face.

"About…?" Piper pressed. With her youngest child's powers, the mother found she could never be too careful. Although Prue tried to hide it, Piper could tell that the clairvoyant dreams often shook the young witch.

"Just… you know…" Her eyes darted up to Wyatt and then immediately back to her scrambled eggs. "What we talked 'bout yesterday…" She trailed off, cheeks beginning to glow with embarrassment.

Gripping the girl's shoulders, Piper forced her out of her chair. She removed the fork from Prue's white-knuckled grip and set it forcefully onto the table, propelling Prue toward the door at the same time. "Go back upstairs," she instructed. "I'll come up in a few minutes to see how you're doing. Try to get back to sleep."

Without argument Prue slunk out of the room. With a sigh, Piper watched her go. Prue had dreamt badly before, but even Piper didn't know the extent of that other future. Chris had always refused to tell her. How could she help Prue work through this one when she didn't know what she was dealing with?

A shower of accusations tore her from her thoughts, disbelief from her two remaining children. "How come she gets to stay home?" "I can't believe she got away with that!" "Mom, are you seriously going to let her not go to school?" "We were the ones involved in the whole thing, but _she_ ends up missing school for it?" "How is this at _all_ fair?"

"Enough!" Piper bellowed. In a heartbeat their voices fell mute. The boys didn't dare utter another sound. "I cannot believe you—either of you! She is your _sister_. You know how she can get with her premonitions. If she saw something from the past, she could have witnessed some real atrocities; and all either of you cares about is missing school!" Before they could respond, Piper turned stormed out of the room. The boys were left in a thick stillness they refused to dismiss. For a few minutes they just sat there. Then, without a word, they placed their dishes in the sink, gathered their stuff, and departed. In mutual silence they trudged down the street. Sneakers crunched against the broken sidewalk cement, and wind tickled their ears with a faint whooshing noise. Chris dug his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and lowered his head as the wind nibbled at his hair. He didn't notice his brother falling behind until he found himself at the bus stop with Wyatt still half a block away. Impatiently, he waited for him to catch up, but Wyatt seemed in no hurry to join him.

When the blonde finally _did_ reach the corner, Chris grumbled, "It still isn't fair that she gets to stay home."

He was completely taken aback when Wyatt's blue eyes rose to glare straight at him. He thought they were on the same page with this one. What had changed?

"She was dreaming about _me_, Chris," Wyatt hissed. Ice sharpened his voice.

Memories of the night before returned to the younger boy's mind in a rush with enough discomfort to make him squirm. He could only begin to imagine Wyatt's guilt, especially with Prue having now witnessed at least a few events. No one else could claim that. No one else in their family knew any details of a life Prue had just witness first-hand. And Wyatt blamed himself for a world that he himself had never seen.

Trying to be generous, Chris offered, "You don't know for sure that—"

"Of course I do," Wyatt snapped, "It had to be me, you moron."

Well. That was the last time Chris offered _Wyatt_ so much as a smile. Not if this attack was the thanks he got. As the brother's attempted to stare each other down, the school bus turned down their street and slowed as it came towards them. "You're so self-centered," Chris muttered at length. By that point, though, the bus had pulled up and Chris's remark was muffled by the hiss of the doors opening. By the way Wyatt stormed up the steps, Chris decided he was glad his comment had gone unheard. He had a sneaking suspicion it would not have helped to defuse the anger.

Following Wyatt onto the bus, he found a seat at the back and claimed it for himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Wyatt had chosen a seat away from his friends.

_He's so dramatic, _he thought half-heartedly to himself—but the twinge of concern did not go unregistered, if not outwardly then at the very least subconsciously. Yesterday had been rough; Chris had to wonder how long its effects would last.

* * *

Morning passed rather uneventfully. Mrs. Williams reminded the class about an essay due the following Monday. With six full days to complete the assignment, Chris decided he could afford to worry about it later. Mr. Randall raised his eyebrows at Chris's lack of completed homework (it was only at that point that he remembered he was supposed to have called Dwight for the list of assignments the previous night), but he knew he could get away with it. Especially in math of all subjects. Mr. Garcia less so, but who liked biology anyway? When he failed to hand in his homework during third period, that old professor started on another of his blue-faced tirades. That had been expected. By now Chris had heard it enough times to quote it back verbatim (and did so with frequency to entertain some of his classmates). Somewhere after, "failure to take pride in your work!" he tuned out.

At one point, when Mr. Garcia seemed to be losing no steam, Chris began to worry that an after-school detention would interfere with the evening with his cousins. Hurriedly, he offered a contrite nod and a "Sorry, Mr. Garcia, won't happen again." He slunk to the back of the room to claim a seat, leaving the man standing at the blackboard rather sourly.

"Well," came the gruff remark, "Well then. See that it doesn't." To Chris's immense relief, he left it at that.

By the time fourth period and then lunch came around, the glamour was beginning to itch and Chris's bruises ached fiercely. Dwight caught him outside the cafeteria just before he could sneak off somewhere quiet to release the magic stuck at his cheeks.

"You never called," he pointed out.

Distracted, Chris said, "Sorry, we went out to eat afterward. Didn't get home 'till late."

Dwight accepted that without questioning. "How was the appointment?" he asked.

"My teeth still hurt from the dentist's drill," Chris offered, gritting his teeth to keep his wobbly powers in place. He needed to find somewhere private _now_.

Dwight frowned. "I thought you were at the eye doctor."

_Shoot_. Chris _never_ confused his lies. Although he supposed pain and a prolonged use of his powers could do that. "I was," he replied, feigning confusion. "What did I say?"

"Dentist."

"Oh. Weird. Sorry, must be my head. Feels like it's about to explode or something."

Dwight watched Chris's face with concern. "You know, you do look a bit off. Want me to call the nurse or someone?"

"Nah. 'M just gonna take something and find somewhere quiet. See you in sign language, 'kay?" He left before Dwight could offer to walk with him; that was the last thing he needed right now.

The bathroom was deserted when he slunk inside and leaned heavily against the last in a row of four partially broken sinks. Staring at his overly-pallid reflection, he sucked in a deep breath and counted to three. As he expelled the air from his lungs, a soft cerulean glow dribbled from his forehead down his cheeks and beneath his shirt. Where it faded, it left dark shades of blue, black, and purple. His eyes traced them from the one on his left cheek to the two small ones protruding from his chin to the large one only half visible at his collarbone, the rest of it hidden by the material of his shirt. He wondered how beaten up he looked beneath the fabric.

Closing his eyes, he released a short breath. _Wyatt_? he called, hoping his brother wasn't still upset from that morning.

After a moment, his own head echoed with a voice that didn't belong inside it. _Yeah?_

Chris sighed, gritting his teeth; he hated admitting defeat, especially to pain but right now the blooming headache in his left temple seized control of his logic. Besides, if it had not been for yesterday's confrontation, Mom would have gotten Wyatt to heal him last night anyway. _I could use a bit of healing._

A few minutes later, Wyatt barged into the bathroom with a flourish. The door banged against the wall, exposing the inside of the room to a trio of girls nearby, all of whom began to giggle obtrusively at the unexpected publicity. Chris rolled his eyes.

"Do you _know_ how to come into a room quietly?"

Mimicking his little brother's tone, Wyatt countered, "Do you _want_ to get healed?"

Wisely, Chris fell silent. At length, he admitted, "Yeah."

Wyatt took the time to give Chris a long once-over, while the younger fidgeted with impatience. Someone could burst in on them at any moment; besides, his muscles throbbed. He was careful not to rush Wyatt, though. It didn't take much brain power to realize nagging would only convince Wyatt to slow down the process—or perhaps cease altogether. Oh yes, Wyatt was a thoughtful brother, all right.

Finally, Wyatt set a glowing hand on Chris's shoulder. Orange light trickled down his torso and rose up his cheeks. The fierce ache receded to the back of his head, muted, though still steady. The blackish purplish blue began to fade to a greenish yellow tinge, which a few seconds later returned to his regular skin tone, if slightly pale. When the older boy took a step back, Chris turned to examine his newly-healed face in the mirror.

"I know," Wyatt quipped, "a masterpiece. Go on, admire it. I should charge to let people see my work of art."

Leaning forward, Chris prodded the repaired skin while absentmindedly responding, "What, you mean like a lion on display at the zoo?" Through the mirror, he watched Wyatt smirk.

"I was thinking more like a monkey, but lions work, too. You know, whatever makes your denial a happier place."

Without taking his eyes off the mirror, Chris muttered, "Oh, shut up."

"Hey, watch it," Wyatt warned. "I just healed you."

As he headed toward the door, Chris snorted, "I'll take care not to ruin your precious masterpiece, then." And then he walked out to face the rest of the day.

He found Dwight sitting beside Keith Manning as Keith's hands motioned wide arcs in a fabulous display of storytelling. Dwight offered a rather pathetic smile (which Keith, in his exuberance, seemed to overlook) and took a stab at his liquefied mashed potatoes with the plastic fork Bernice the Lunch Lady had handed him.

As Chris joined the two, he heard, "…_telling_ you. It was revolting." Dwight nodded along and then, catch sight of Chris, threw out a pained smile. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly as Chris joined them. With some quick explanation that he was feeling much better—miraculously—Chris scooted in on Dwight's other side. They chatted for the last few minutes of lunch, much to Keith's consternation, until the bell dismissed them from their table. Together, they dumped out their trays; said goodbye to Keith, who had English; and headed to the second floor for sign language.

In the back of the room, with Ms. Kramer's back turned, Dwight dealt out a game of Poker to himself, Chris, and Andrew Martinez—the only other boy who had dared take the subject. No one ever asked why, but somehow Everybody knew that no one who was Anybody would take sign language. Chris and Dwight never believed in following unwritten rules anyway. As for Andrew… quite frankly, he was as big of a Nobody as anyone could get. Plus, he had a terrible Poker face.

At 1:30 the duo reluctantly split; Dwight heading toward his biology classroom, Chris to the library. They met up again in front of Chris's locker just before history.

"How's my house sound?" Dwight suggested, leaning against a locker as Chris stuffed potentially important sheets behind his text on English literature. "Tonight."

"Can't." Chris shut his locker with a bang, spun the lock. "The cousins are coming over so Mom and the aunts can have some sort of 'girls' night out' or whatever. I can't ditch them."

Dwight 'hmphed' but understood well enough to let it go pretty easily. "Tomorrow, then. Or Thursday. Whatever." The bell rang. Chris followed Dwight to his locker, where they collected a notebook and text book, then leisurely made their way to class.

Two hazel eyes darted in their direction the moment Dwight opened the door. "You're late," Ms. Gowell remarked, as if the statement were at all necessary. As if the boys couldn't already conclude such for themselves by the way her hand had stopped halfway to the blackboard with a broken piece of chalk.

"Sorry," Chris said without hesitation, "we had to stop on the way for a sanity check. We're fine now, don't worry." He gave a cheerful smile and trotted to his seat as Dwight did the same, snorting back a laugh.

"Oh?" Ms. Gowell remarked with a sigh.

Pleasantly, Chris answered, "Yep. Chased the sanity right back out."

Despite herself, Marcy smiled. She supposed there was no harm in letting that go—just this once.

* * *

By the time school ended, Chris had just about had enough and was more than ready to turn in for the evening. Wyatt had forgotten his math text book in his locker, and Chris had absolutely no intention of waiting for him. Trotting to the bushes, he took a quick look around before orbing. He appeared in a swaddle of blue light, facing the steps across from the foyer in the manor. Before he could even set down his knapsack, a voice announced his presence.

"Chris!" it shrieked. He turned to see two girls standing in the threshold of the living room. The taller had dark brown hair, nearly black, like her father's, cropped to her shoulders and held in place by a bright pink scrunchy. She came to Chris's shoulder, which she insisted was average, if not downright tall, for her age. She was wearing a pink, flairy skirt and a white shirt, short-sleeved despite the briskness of the air outside, that had on it the face of a purple kitten. When Chris met her eyes, the girl's lips quirked into a wry half-smile.

"Melon!" Chris exclaimed cheerfully. She rolled her eyes.

"Shut up, Chris," she retorted with the casual tone of something spoken often before. She stepped forward and slung an arm around Chris in an affectionate embrace, which was readily returned.

Beside her sister stood Katie, expression eager at her cousin's arrival. She had the same light brown eyes and mouse-brown hair as her mother, and stood rather short for her age, at almost a head underneath most of her classmates. She was dressed more appropriately than her twelve-year-old sister, if a bit warmly, in a wool sweater and red, denim pants. Her face was pale, though both parents were naturally dark; her limbs looked frail.

Chris smiled benignly at his young cousin. He shifted to detach himself from his current embrace and then offered the girl a friendly wave. "Hey, Katie," he said.

"Hi, Chris," she squeaked brightly in return. Both hands linked together behind her back as she rocked onto the balls of her feet.

"So…" Chris prompted when she said nothing more, "are you excited, or what? In a week you'll be eight years old. That sort of thing doesn't happen every day."

Giggling softly behind two thin hands, she corrected, "Six days."

From beside Chris, Lea rolled her eyes. "Same difference, Katie."

"Nuh-uh," Katie countered with confidence, "it's a whole entire day more."

"Whatever." Lea brushed past Chris and sidestepped her sister as she motioned for them to switch over to the living room. Dumping his bag by the door, Chris followed her, with Katie gliding behind them. On the floor by the coffee table, he found a spread of cards dealt for two with a sloppy pile in between them. Go Fish, of course—it was all Katie ever liked to play. Stepping over the set-up, the boy bounced onto the couch, slid dirty sneakers off his feet, and kicked his legs onto the coffee table.

Lea wrinkled her nose as she sat down beside him. "Your feet smell," she complained, fanning a hand in front of her face. Smiling, Chris leaned back, wriggling his toes. Lea rolled her eyes. "Get them off the table."

"Hey, Melon," he protested, "_you're_ the guest. I _live_ here."

One hand pinching her nostrils shut, she replied nasally, "I'm sure Aunt Piper is totally okay with your stinky socks smelling up the whole manor, then."

Scowling, Chris slipped his feet off the table. "That's bribery." He glowered when she grinned at her triumph.

"Technically it's blackmail," she pointed out. When his scowl deepened, she flashed him a cheeky smile.

"So," he said when Katie had settled herself in the chair opposite them, "how's school going?"

Lea sighed. "Oh, don't start that, Chris. You know I'd trade you in a second." She pulled a face. "I hate Magic School."

Snorting, her cousin replied, "That's only because witches don't freeze. Not to mention"—His eyes glimmered mischievously—"there are anti-astral spells on all the boys' bathrooms…"

"Hey!" Lea protested hotly, ears darkening to a deep maroon. "I'm not a pervert, Chris. That's just _gross_!" When he began to laugh, she smacked him across the arm, but even that didn't stop him.

"Sorry, sorry," he chuckled at length, waving off her assault. "Just saying."

"Yeah, well," Lea grumbled, "I'd rather Mom and Dad let me go to public school. I could get tutored on the side, like you and Wyatt and Prue do."

"And what would Katie do?" Chris remarked.

Delighted to be part of the conversation, Katie piped up, "Mommy and Daddy say I can't go to a regular school like yours, Chris." He looked toward her, noting the way her small frame swam in the size of the leather chair. She had always been so small for her age.

"Yeah," he acknowledged, "because if even one person tries to touch you, our cover is blown wide open." He examined her eyes, soft and sad. Sometimes, after one of their family dinners, when everyone had said their goodbyes and parted with hugs, Chris though about Katie, standing slightly to the side, as if she wanted to fade into the background. As much a part of the family as anyone but an outcast in ways nobody but she could ever understand. A part of him wondered what it felt like—seven years old and never been touched. Once, a couple of years ago, he had asked her.

"What's it like not to feel anything?" And she had countered chillingly, "What's it like to feel?" That night, expression grave, Piper had sat her son down and instructed him never to broach the topic again. It became an unmentionable. When she was two, a ten-year-old Chris had reached into her crib and tried to stroke her chubby belly. His hand had passed right through her stomach and thumped against the mattress beneath it. He had withdrawn quickly, had scrambled to his mother with terror in his eyes. That was when he first learned of his baby cousin's power: intangibility. Unchecked. Forever incapable of feeling another person's skin on hers. A fate, he believed, almost worse than death itself. To never feel the blankets wrapped around her in bed, to never feel a kiss goodnight, to never be able to hold her mother's hand…

Chris shook his head sharply, ridding himself of the flash of a life that his cousin endured daily. It did not do for him to dwell on such thoughts. Instead, he address Lea again, forcing a smile as he remarked, "I'd still trade you any day. I _wish_ I could go to Magic School. All this hiding stuff from my friends—it's totally unfair."

"Oh yeah," Lea teased, "poor you with your hard life." When he scoffed in mock affront, she smiled sweetly. Eyes twinkling, she tucked her feet under her legs, curling on top of them until she found a position that suited her. At length, she gazed toward the front door and wondered, "So where are Wyatt and Prue? Shouldn't they be home by now?"

Chris frowned. "Well, Wyatt should've been here already. He must've gotten caught up in something else. Prue's… sick."

"Sick? What's she got?" Katie wondered, shivering slightly at the thought. She always had to be cautious; it didn't take much to overwhelm her immune system, especially when the colder seasons blew in.

With a sympathetic smile, Chris replied, "Premonitions. Don't worry, far as I know, they're not contagious."

She giggled, the concern fading from her eyes.

More curious than her sister, Leo said, "Must have been some premonition to make her sick and all."

Forcing a laugh, Chris suggested, "Nah, she's just ultra-sensitive."

"Don't be mean to your sister, Chris," Lea admonished. Rather hypocritically, in Chris's opinion. Before he could mention such, she continued, "So what did she see?"

Suddenly, Chris found the tips of his fingernails insatiably intriguing. Picking at them with deliberate casualty, he offered an indifferent, "Dunno. You'd have to ask her. I'm sure whatever it is was absolutely fascinating." The added sarcasm did the trick; Lea dropped the subject in favor of reprimanding her cousin's intolerable attitude.

"She's your sister. Be nice to her, Chris."

From across the room, a voice snorted, "Like that's ever stopped you." They all spun around and Lea launched herself off the couch in order to greet her oldest cousin. Catching her in his embrace, he laughed, "Nice to see you, too." Over her shoulder he added, "And you, too, Katie. How've you been?"

"Good," the child squeaked. "Mommy says the pneu…pneu… that my cold is all gone now."

"The pneumonia?" Wyatt guessed, smiling.

"Yeah, that." When Wyatt released Lea, Katie asked, "Will you play Go Fish with me? Lea won't play once you're here. She thinks you guys are more fun." As Katie pouted sullenly, Lea once again gave her trademark roll of the eyes.

"Are you kidding?" Wyatt demanded, "Nobody's more fun than you." Pleased, Katie grinned, but then Wyatt added, "I'd love to play, kiddo, but I have some chores to finish up." He passed her and Chris, promising, "I'll do my best to get back in time to play a bit before you go."

Chris frowned at the back of his brother's blond head. 'Get back'? What sort of chores required that he leave the house? When Wyatt exited the room, Chris padded after him. Halfway up the stairs, he grabbed Wyatt's arm.

"Hey!" Wyatt protested, spinning to face his younger brother.

"You're going to the Underworld," Chris accused flatly.

Wrenching his arm from Chris's grip, Wyatt countered, "So?"

"So?" Chris repeated with incredulity. He followed when Wyatt resumed his trek up the stairs and into the hallway. "_So_ you just went two days ago. Twice a week? Since when did you start going this often?"

Without turning around, Wyatt responded, "Since this week, apparently. Leave me alone. This isn't your business." When he tried to close his bedroom door, Chris jammed a sock-clad foot into it. Wyatt yanked back just in time, and reluctantly opened it enough to see Chris's resolute expression.

"What about Mom?" he challenged, "Do you think she'll agree that it's none of her business either?"

"Just go away, Chris."

Ignoring the demand, Chris narrowed his eyes, inspecting his brother's irate face. "Hang on," he said, pausing. "Does this have something to do with what we found out last night? About the other you and the stuff he—?"

"_No_, Chris," Wyatt snapped, and before Chris could react, the door slammed shut in his face.

_Sounded like a pretty big yes to me,_ he thought crossly. Of course, Wyatt always _had_ been a rather useless liar. Who needed tact when he had the brute strength necessary to be as blunt as he pleased? Still, Chris decided to let this go. Persisting right now would get him nowhere, not with Wyatt's present mood.

Sighing heavily, Chris started toward the stairs. As a safety precaution, he summoned his magic, which protested weakly at being used so soon after his glamouring earlier that day. He mustered up his strength and forced out his sensing powers to scope the vicinity. Lea had an inquisitive nature and could be sneaky when the situation called for it. This was not a conversation he wanted her to overhear.

The threads of his magic listened blindly, groping for any vibrations of familiar sound. In the room a few doors down they felt a high-pitched, off-tune whistling—which Chris recognized as Prue—muted by soft, even breathing as she slept. A slow moan, but Chris drew his powers away before they could determine what had elicited the sound. He didn't want to know what she was dreaming about.

Aside from her he found no one, which meant Lea had not overheard. That was something to be thankful for, at least. Threads of magic spilled down the stairs and into the living room, where they heard the identifying sounds that made up his cousin: mischievous chuckling and applause—because, after all, Lea always did enjoy being the center of attention.

Creeping behind that, they heard a soft sigh, forlorn, nearly inaudible, a wisp of a sound from which Chris instantly forced his powers to retreat. Hearing Katie's essence had always been nearly too much for him to bear. Instead, he turned his magic back the other way, to Wyatt's bedroom to sense how his brother was faring. But when the threads trip to wriggle beneath the door, they rammed headlong into a wall of hot metal, glowing with the fire of Wyatt's emotions. They were denied access to the familiar sounds that identified Chris's brother—like the half-hearted groan and the snort of poorly-held in laughter—denied all that Wyatt's essence usually echoed back to them. But they did hear something, a noise so dark and unfamiliar, a cross between a snarl and a wail of despair; livid, feral. A sound so deeply subconscious that even actively blocking sensing powers could not mute it entirely.

Chris called back his magic, and it receded into him with the comfort of returning home. He felt it settle in his gut, falling back into a state of dormancy. All the sounds it had collected settled down with it, finding rest in Chris's chest. That wail—so ridden with guilt and horror, with disgust—it reverberated between Chris's ears. It rang down his spine and echoed through his veins. It would not settle, would not still.

Shuddering, Chris withdrew. Now was certainly not the time to confront Wyatt, not with his older brother in such a state of turmoil. No, he would wait until Wyatt had left off some steam. He just hoped his brother would not get himself killed in the process of releasing some of that pent-up pain. An emotionally-charged twice-blessed witch was a danger to every demon out there—but he was equally a danger to himself. Chris could only hope the intensity would fizzle out sooner rather than later, but with the mere echo of it still plaguing him he somehow doubted that would be the case.

Sighing, he returned to his cousins, the calls of an unvoiced scream still raising goose bumps on his skin.

* * *

**To my dearest readers:**

**I know this chapter is long overdue, and I can only apologize repeatedly for the time. Actually, apologies to very little at this point. I hope this extra-long chapter will be a bit of retribution for those of you who waited by your computers in desperation. (Ah, I flatter myself too much. _-chuckles-_) Anyway, my person to pay tribute to today for excellent reviews is Artsfan. She's always thorough and tells it like it is -- the good and the bad. What lovely reviews! ...And for such a lousy responder, too. I always put off responding to your reviews because I want to give thought-out responses, but since I never have time to actually sit down and think I take so long to get to them. :P Nice way to repay you for your lovely reviews, isn't it.**


	12. 11 Of Dinners and Disasters

**- Of Dinners and Disasters -  
**"_No one keeps a secret so well as a child." –Victor Hugo_

* * *

(Tuesday, October 15, 2019)

A little after seven, with Chris and Lea in the middle of a heated debate about who really owned Boardwalk and Park Place, they heard a car pull up outside. Katie had fallen asleep in the armchair, legs tucked to her chest. Without the control she maintained in her waking state, levitation brought her floating a couple inches above the fabric. Every once in a while, Chris threw a glance in her direction to make sure she didn't stray too far from her seat. A part of him wondered what worried him—even if she fell and missed the chair, the sensation altogether would pass right through her. Nevertheless, as the older cousin it was his job to worry about her. When the door opened in the foyer, the seven-year-old's eyes blinked open. She raised her head while her body, with precise control, returned itself to the armchair.

"We're back!" Phoebe called into the house. The door shut with a bang. Using her mother's gallant entrance as a distraction, Lea snatched the two properties out of Chris's reach.

"Mommy?" Katie said blearily. Her call was followed by the clackety-clack of high-heeled footsteps entering the living room. Each sister's arms were laden with packages, Phoebe's with slightly bulkier ones than the others.

She was the first to free her hands, setting both bags down on the coffee table. Smiling at Katie and then at Lea, who didn't look up from the game board, she asked, "Hey, girls, did you have fun with your cousins?"

Katie nodded, rubbing dreams from her eyes. "Are we going home?" she asked.

"Yeah, babe. In a few minutes. You'd better get your coat on. Do you need to use the bathroom?"

Katie answered her mother's queries with quiet obedience, and then hopped off the armchair to carry out her instructions. Lea, from her stubbornly kept seat on the floor, finally did look up, but only to argue that they couldn't leave yet without letting her finish winning the game. While Phoebe tried to cajole her older daughter into motion, Piper handed her single package to Paige, who orbed it upstairs. Piper approached her son, who was busy collecting property cards from across the board.

"Was everything quiet?"

"No demons," he replied. He scooped the pieces off the Monopoly board and started to organize the money, separating it by color. Finally noticing her cousin's traitorous cleanup, Lea paused her fight just long enough to snap that he "leave it!" before returning to her debate. Chris kept separating.

"Did everyone eat?" Piper continued.

Chris almost laughed; his mom was so predictable. Matriarch of the family and determined to fulfill her duty. "Yeah, Mom, we ate. I heated up some leftover pizza from the freezer."

At the word 'pizza,' Piper wrinkled her nose, unhappy with what Chris apparently considered appropriate as a dinner. Who had even dared to _put _pizza in her freezer? But then, deciding to let go what had already happened anyway, she gave a reluctant, "Fine. So everyone had some, then?" She resolved to check the fridge later and discard any more such offensive foods.

Folding the board into the box, Chris gave a nod and stood, the game tucked under his arm. Yes, everyone had eaten. Except Wyatt, whom Chris hadn't dared approach again, not with that feral snarl still trembling within his ribcage. No, if Wyatt were hungry—well, he knew how to work the microwave himself. He trotted toward the stairs, sighing when his mom trailed after him. Clearly her interrogation hadn't ended.

When he paused on the steps, expectant, Piper pressed, "Your sister, too? She should eat something. Did she eat something?"

"What? Oh, whoops." Prue had not been the sibling his guilty conscience had in mind; in fact, she hadn't been on his radar at all. Her room had remained surprisingly quiet the past few hours, so much so that Chris forgot she was up there (and secretly wondered if she actually was). "No, sorry. She was in her room the whole time. Probably sleeping or something. I'll tell her to come down for—"

"No, no," Piper assured, "I'll bring something up."

To himself the boy muttered, _Prue's fine, there's nothing wrong with her;_ but after his mom's dressing-down that morning he didn't dare voice the opinion. Instead, continuing up the stairs, he mumbled a half-hearted, "Sounds good." He took the remaining stairs two at a time.

Both Wyatt and Prue's doors were closed. A quick check with his sensing powers determined that Prue was, in fact, asleep in her room. _Well, what d'you know. _By the time he replaced Monopoly in the game closet and skidded back downstairs, Paige had already left and Phoebe, Lea, and Katie were at the door, Lea looking particularly grumpy. There was time for only a cheerful, "See you in a week, Katie. Bye, Melon," before Phoebe ushered them outside. Afterwards, Chris whined a bit about having 'no one to play with,' but when it became obvious Piper was ignoring him, he wandered up to his room and reluctantly tackled his homework. It was as close to a quiet evening as the Halliwell Manor ever saw.

* * *

Prue spent the next day at home, to her feeble protest. Other than that, she seemed to exhibit no lasting effects so that, at least by Thursday, she was allowed to return to school. She looked well enough that Piper stopped eyeing her each time she walked into a room, and even let her spend Sunday morning with Lori and Michelle at the mall (though she called every hour to check in). Despite her distinct cheerfulness, Prue had still said nothing to hint to what she had dreamt, but as the week progressed Piper stopped pressing her for information, deciding to let things lie. At least for the time being.

Five days from the last visit, that Sunday, the clan was together again, this time with a few more additions. five-year-old Bobby, bored of the grown-up conversation in the living room, dragged his cousins Lea and Katie out to the front yard to begin a game of tag. When Lori's mom dropped Prue off from the mall a few minutes later, the only indication that she had been ill was Lea's casual, "Feeling better?" before she, too, was roped into the game.

Inside, the adults chatted in the living room while Piper finished her preparations in the kitchen. A few minutes passed in cozy small-talk until Piper's authoritative voice echoed, "Dinner in five minutes!" an announcement that changed little. Phoebe merely resettled herself on the couch; she rested back against her husband's shoulder. In the same fluid motion, he leaned forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head. Across from them, in an armchair, Paige threw a casual hand over her abdomen. Henry Mitchell, her husband of fourteen years, sat in the second chair a couple feet from hers. Both had come straight from work, Henry making a quick stop to pick up their son from Kindergarten. In their rush, neither had changed. Paige was dressed now in a rumpled set of teaching robes, which she wrinkled whenever shifting positions. Henry's lieutenant uniform was unbuttoned to reveal the sweat-stained t-shirt underneath it.

The first couple, on the other hand, had been given ample time to prepare for the evening. They had taken the day off the spend time with the birthday girl. Never one to disappoint, Coop had fulfilled Katie's birthday request—a trip to the circus—by whisking the three of them to Quebec City, where Cirque de Soleil put on a grand performance. Katie's eyes were riveted to the elegant and elaborate choreography of the sparkling acrobats; she loved everything about them, from their vibrant uniforms to their utter lack of fear while they danced, surrounded by emptiness—nothing to hold, to touch.

Afterwards, Phoebe and Coop surprised Katie with a visit to Niagara Falls. They stood beside the falls along the American border, water spraying their faces and drenching their shirts beneath the rain ponchos handed to them by a personal guide. Frail as she was, Katie managed only twenty minutes, even bundled in extra layers, before requesting a quiet place to sit down. Her eyes, wide with awe, lingered on the tremendous falls with longing, as her parents led her back up the wooden steps and onto drier lands. Once the roar of the downpour had faded to a distant throbbing, Phoebe deemed it time to eat.

They had lunch and dessert at a quaint little restaurant in Little Italy, Montréal—Il Mulino, which, Coop announced with authority, served the most authentic Italian delicacies on their side of the Atlantic Ocean. Then Katie happily spent the next couple of hours shopping with her mom while Daddy got dragged along. Two new outfits and one butterfly necklace later, the trio returned home. There they pushed aside the living room rug and began a giggly game of Monopoly in the middle of the floor. As the faithful, adoring baby sister, Katie insisted they play Lea's favorite game, even if the older girl was not there to join. Although much of the game went a bit over the almost-eight-year-old's head, she dutifully played—and enjoyed—well into bankruptcy. That still left time for a bath and a much-needed nap. Phoebe even managed to sit down and answer another couple of letters for the coming week's column while Coop checked up on one of his older couples, now newlyweds.

"Sounds like a great day for everyone," Paige remarked as Phoebe finished relaying the finer details of their trip. Henry nodded in agreement.

"More like exhausting," Phoebe mused, sitting back against her husband's shoulder. "Katie's lucky she got the chance to nap before we came." Coop grunted in agreement, although he couldn't quite arrange his face into a sympathetic enough expression to cover the glow he always came back with after visiting a successful client. Phoebe learned to forgive him for that; how could she take offense at home much he loved love?

"What I want to know," Henry said, "is how both of you got out of work for an entire day. I can't get those kinds of freebies at the station, and Paige's vacation days are determined by the family emergencies." He grimaced plainly. "By the end of the year there aren't any left over."

Laughing, Phoebe responded, "I work out my own schedule. As long as I get my column in on time, Oscar doesn't care when I do it. Calling in sick is really just a formality."

"I got a colleague to cover for me," Coop added. "He understood. When we say, 'Nothing is greater than love,' that includes all forms." When he tightened his arms around his wife's waist, instinct had her leaning toward the touch.

"Dinner!" Piper yelled from the kitchen. A moment later she appeared in the threshold, wiping her hands on a clean dishtowel. "Everyone up," she instructed, noting with annoyance their lack of reaction to her initial call. Paige uncurled her feet from where she had tucked them beneath her hips and took her time slipping them back into the shoes she had discarded on the floor soon after their arrival. Henry groaned as he shifted, and Phoebe and Coop didn't bother moving at all, though Phoebe did pitch herself forward as if she might _eventually_ attempt to get up.

_One would assume,_ Piper thought as she folded her hands onto her hips, _that they'd appreciate getting called in to eat._

"Coop," she sighed at length, giving up on the lot of them, "When you _do_ get up, would you mind helping Leo round the kids up for supper?"

"Sure," he replied. Phoebe felt his torso tense behind her but didn't have time to process the implication before pinkish smoke billowed from behind her and he was gone. Without his support, she fell back against the sofa with an _"Oof!_" A cloud surrounded her face, forcing out a number of coughs before the fading fuscia cleared from her throat. It felt like swallowing an unexpected mouthful of heated cotton candy. With difficulty the irritated wife pushed herself back up, scowling at the imprint her husband had left behind.

"I hate when he does that," she grumbled. Both Piper and, unexpectedly, Henry 'hmphed' in understanding. Scoffing, Paige swatted her husband's chest, although his defiant gaze refused to recant the sentiment. While they bantered with one another, Phoebe, who without support behind her felt thoroughly uncomfortable, propelled herself upward and stood. "You need help setting the table?" she asked her older sister as she brushed her hands over a wrinkle in her white skirt. Piper's raised eyebrows and dry smile went unnoticed.

At length, choosing not to comment on the belatedness of a thoughtful offer, the eldest replied, "Nah. I had the boys do that before you came." When Phoebe offered a snort of disbelief as her only response, Piper admitted, "Well, I never said they did it _willingly. _I… persuaded them…" Sighing, she lamented, "I swear, the moment they even _taste_ the idea of being a teenager…"

"Tell me about it," agreed Phoebe, whose own Lea neared thirteen herself. "I keep telling her she's still twelve, but she ignores me. It's like talking to a brick wall." They headed toward the dining room, Paige hopping up to follow and Henry eventually grunting himself into motion as well. As they left the room, the youngest sister silently thanked the Powers that Be that Bobby was still a far cry from the stage her sisters so artfully described.

It took close to twenty minutes for Leo and Coop to round up the four hiding children and when they trooped back into the house with Lea, Prue, Katie, and Bobby in tow, they looked thoroughly disheveled. The glow of Coop's previous elation had definitely dulled. Although she did let slip a laugh at their amusing appearance, Piper managed to stifle a comment, though the situation tempted her sorely. To overcome the lure, she busied herself—calling down the boys; instructing the others to wash up before even _thinking_ of sitting down at her table; and demanding that Paige take off that ridiculous robe for dinner. There was a bustle from all directions and within a matter of minutes nine seats found themselves occupied. From the kitchen Piper waited until the sound of scraping chairs had ceased. After all these years she knew better than to bring out food while people still scrambled about in the dining room. When all was quiet, save the chatter of eager voices, she tucked her mitten-clad hands into the oven to retrieve Katie's favorite dish. Balancing a serving spoon on top, she carried it in to the family.

"Baked ziti for the birthday girl," she announced as she set in front of her niece a tin pan rimmed with cheese-glued noodles and homemade tomato sauce. Katie clapped with delight.

"Thank you, Aunt Piper," she dutifully replied, before eagerly tilting her plate forward. Chuckling, Piper spooned a hefty portion onto her plate.

When all other plates had been filled, Piper sat down beside an empty chair and sectioned off a bit for herself. From the helping on her plate, she sliced off a corner with the side of her fork and, with a chef's critical eye, examined her creation. After a moment she allowed herself to taste a single sauce-drenched noodle, and only after determining that it was, in fact, up to par did she permit herself to eat. A couple of seconds later, Chris skidded into the room.

"Smells great," he approved loudly, collapsing onto the chair beside his scowling mother. "Pass me some. Please." He reached over Katie to drag the ziti closer, conspicuously overlooking the salad bowl next to his plate.

"I've been calling you for the past ten minutes. And where's your brother?" Piper's glower only deepened when her son carelessly and sloppily scraped a pile of noodles onto his plate.

Without looking up, and with only the briefest of hesitations, he intoned, "Finishing some English essay. He said he'll be down in a minute." Piper failed to notice the way Chris held his breath as he waited for her response, but Prue frowned with suspicion.

When Wyatt appeared some minutes later, Piper demanded, "What took you so long?"

Shrugging, eyes roaming the contents of the table, he muttered, "Had some calculus to finish up." Chris shot him a look, which then swiveled to his mother, but neither recipient noticed.

When her oldest child shuffled toward the closest vacancy, a seat at the head of the table, Piper stopped him with a, "No, don't sit there. That's for Grandpa."

Through a mouthful, Chris said, "Grandpa's coming?"

"Yes, Chris," Piper sighed, giving up on correcting his lack of etiquette, "your grandfather is coming. Which you would know if you bothered to listen to me once in a while."

With an amiable smile, Chris responded, "I do—it's just that 'once' happened not to be the 'while' that you mentioned Grandpa was coming for dinner."

"I thought Grandpa was in Singapore this week," Prue remarked from the other end of the table.

"This _past_ week," Piper corrected. "He got home just a little while ago. Said he was coming straight from the airport. Did you take salad, Prue?" She passed the bowl across the table, where it passed hands from Henry, who paused to add some to Bobby's plate, to Paige to Lea to Prue, who very forcefully pushed the bowl away. Although she waited for reprimand, Piper had already refocused on Wyatt, who seated himself in the only remaining chair, between his uncle Henry and his father, at the head of the table.

"Is Grandpa bringing me a present?" Katie wondered. She was so excited at the prospect—a present from a whole 'nother country!—that she had let her control slip; her body levitated a few inches off the chair, making her look disproportionately tall.

"Katie!" Phoebe rebuked, shocked to hear from her younger child a comment that befitted her older one. Blushing a faint pink, Katie lowered her eyes and, reclaiming her powers, returned herself to a more appropriate height.

In a grunt, head ducked, Lea pointed out, "Nothing wrong with asking."

Katie glowed.

Clinking forks and loud chewing took up space in the air. Over the lull in talk, five-year-old Bobby announced, "I want pasta."

"Is that how we ask, Bobby?" Paige asked from his left, eyebrows raised with patient expectancy.

Bewildered, the boy repeated, "I want pasta… please?"

Wyatt gave a startled 'ha!', impressed with his littlest cousin's unintentional display of wit. Leo looked at him with raised eyebrows, an expression akin to Paige's, his laced not with the predicted disapproval but an unexpected surprise at an action he assumed below his son. Squirming, Wyatt ducked his head to avoid the stare. He could feel his dad's eyes watching the back of his head—even when he heard the 'clink, clink' that ensured his father had resumed eating.

Meanwhile, as Henry himself snorted into his string beans, Paige sighed and prompted, "Can I please…"

Bobby, fork fisted in his right hand, wondered why his mother insisted on withholding the pasta that was very much within her reach; and why she couldn't even recall the end of her own sentence. Still, she clearly would not pass the bowl until she had finished her thought, so with an inner sigh the boy reminded his mother, "'Can I please have some pasta.'"

She smiled, finally remembering, and said, "Very good, Bobby," to which the boy wanted to reply, "Better than you," but it seemed not the best thing to say because Mommy probably didn't like people pointing out that she _often_ had trouble recalling the ends to her sentences (and most often, Bobby noticed, when speaking to him).

"Hey, Paige, how's that student of yours—the one you sent home last week?" Phoebe asked.

"Actually, he's back." Paige stabbed a piece of crunchy lettuce and nibbled off a piece at the edge before saying, "Yeah, I didn't expect it. I mean, you know me—I don't understand how anyone could hate magic when it's such a gift. But he seemed to really despise it. I didn't think he'd come around so soon."

From the end of the table, Leo, headmaster at Magic School and aware of all the students within its walls, supplied, "His father talked him into it. Said it was important to learn about his heritage."

Frowning, Phoebe said, "But… I thought he was, you know… mortal."

"Hey!" Henry protested. As a mortal, he _fully_ supported Bobby learning magic—and resented any implication otherwise.

"Not you, sweetheart," Paige sighed in a patronizing tone, "You're special."

"Actually," Leo remarked, a mortal himself for many years, "some of our most supportive parents are mortals." Arms crossed and smirk in place, Henry sat back in his chair, entirely smug. "Uneducated witches who've had a bad experience or two with out-of-control powers," Leo continued, "often assume there's no alternative and shun the whole of magic."

"That's terrible," Phoebe lamented.

"That's dumb," Chris added helpfully.

"PASTA!" Bobby said loudly, making everyone jump. When he had everyone's eyes on him, he said much more calmly, "Please."

"Bobby, be patient," Paige admonished, "I'm getting you some." Bobby blinked at her, so she took his plate and started to spoon out from the bowl of un-marinated noodles. As she did so, she addressed her nephew, "It isn't dumb, they just don't know any better. They've been burned by the fire, so they assume that's all there is to it. They don't realize that the fire can also give them heat and light—if they learn not to stand too close."

"Hey," Wyatt protested, "don't get all 'Mrs. Mitchell' on us. We're not your students."

Making a face, she defended, "All I'm saying is that they think magic is dangerous. They don't realize that what's so dangerous about it is when it's not taught to be controlled, when it's ignored. _That's_ when it goes wild."

Rolling his eyes at the lecture it took his aunt to come to the conclusion he had drawn in a single word, he remarked, "Like I said, it's dumb."

"They're not _dumb_, Chris," Piper reproached, and Paige dedicated a fervent, agreeing nod to the cause.

From beside her, Bobby sighed. The pasta had been forgotten—again—and now he couldn't even reach his plate. Mommy was getting more and more involved in whatever boring topic seemed to have all the grown-ups occupied. Scooting his chair back, Bobby slipped off his seat and ducked under the table. To his left were two jean-clad legs, one crossed over the other, barefoot with a pair of black shoes peeking out from somewhere under the chair. Beside them, Bobby inched toward the white-and-blue sneakers, one of which rapped against the floor, tapping out a rhythm. He poked his head out between that chair and the one beside it—also barefoot, but with no shoes in sight. His cousins Lea and Prue glanced down in surprise.

"Lea," he said, "Can I have pasta, please?"

Lea blinked for a moment and then laughed. "Sure," she answered and, to his relief, leaned over then and there to retrieve the pasta bowl.

Thanking her twice, he scurried back to his seat, set the bowl down in place of his own missing plate, and dug in.

"Bobby, what are you—? Where did you—?" While Lea and Prue exploded in peels of laughter, Paige snatched the bowl away from a disappointed Bobby, piled more onto the plate she had neglected, and set it in front of him. "There you go. You want ketchup with that? No? Good." She sighed as she replaced the bowl on the table. "Sometimes I don't know what to do with this kid."

Fork back in his fist and mouth bulging with noodles, Bobby mused, _Sometimes I don't know what to do with this mommy._ But she was good at bedtime stories, and she didn't get mad when he got dirty in the mud, and they got along well enough—so he supposed he would keep her, memory problems and all.

From the foyer, almost drowned out by the clamor, someone heard the doorbell ring and then, as though the person at the door knew the likelihood of that going unheard, incessant knocking.

Closest to the door, Prue flew off her seat to answer it. "It's Grandpa!" she announced for anyone who had not already determined that for herself, and then, "What are you _wearing_?" As she trotted back into the dining room, her grandfather followed behind her, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he went. There was a wrapped box tucked beneath one arm. On his head he wore, to Katie's immense amusement, a feathery mess of colors strung together by beaded strings that dangled down in his face. His smile widened when even Bobby's voice ceased, all heads turning toward him.

"Uh… Dad…?"

"Grandpa," Katie giggled, hands flying to her mouth as her eyes crinkled with mirth, "your hat's so hairy!" Chuckles erupted from the others around the table.

"It's not hair," Victor explained with a grin. "They're feathers. This, my dear, is a traditional Singaporean headdress." He stood at attention and then threw his youngest granddaughter a proud salute. She responded with another giggle.

Meanwhile, a thoroughly confused Bobby interjected, "But, Grammpa, how come in Singaporean they wear dresses on their heads?" Another round of amusement drowned out his confusion. He looked around, forehead wrinkled, but they only smiled at him, as if that explained everything.

Through her laughter, Paige attempted to clarify. "No, Bobby—it's _called_ a headdress but—it's not _actually_ a dress—well, see—that's just what the hat's—_called_."

The boy paused, thinking. At length he decided, "Well, that's a dumb name," effectively ending the conversation. The family's attention returned to Victor.

"Grandpa…"

"Yes, miss birthday girl? How can I be of service?"

Piper had abandoned her seat and was tugging her father's coat off his shoulders, slinging it over one arm as the other pulled out the chair for him to sit. She shook out the coat, folded it properly, and then held out a hand for his suit jacket, an offer he waved away.

A faint blush dusting her cheeks, Katie stammered, "Well… is that… who's that present for?"

Eyes twinkling, Victor replied with feigned ignorance, "What present? Ohhh, you mean_ this_ present?" At her eager nod, he shrugged, "That's nothing really. Just a little something I picked up for my dog."

Somewhat uncertain, Katie's expression fell. Her hands dropped off the table and scrunched beneath the tablecloth. After a moment, though, her face brightened again. "But you don't _have_ a dog," she proclaimed, pleased with her detective work.

Victor gave himself a moment to think, hand dramatically stroking the day-old stubble that had prickled up during his plane ride. "Hmm… you're right. I guess I'll just have to give it to you, then." He stepped around Coop and Phoebe to place the box in front of Katie, beaming. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

Eyes riveted to the gift, she couldn't even force herself to look up when, in awe, she breathed, "_Thank_ you." Her small hands inched toward the prize. Even the wrapping paper looked foreign, a popping green with brown monkey-looking, horned creatures dangling from nonexistent branches. Her very own present from a different _country_, a whole plane ride away. She'd never ridden on a plane before…

Smiling, Victor leaned forward to place a kiss on the crown of Katie's head. Mere inches away, he froze and drew back, remembering. She didn't notice the blunder, couldn't feel how close he'd come to her skin; she wouldn't even have known if he did end up kissing her—but he had _forgotten. _As he inconspicuously attempted to draw away, the people at the table averted their gazes, forcing conversation to resume in a decidedly awkward manner.

Piper, who had made a quick visit to the coat closet to deposit Victor's coat, returned at that moment. Having missed the brief embarrassment, she said only, "Dad, come sit down. What can I get you?"

"Uh…" He cleared his throat as if clearing away the scene. "Uh… how about some of that delicious-looking ziti?" As he moved back toward his seat, a hand caught his arm. He looked down and met Phoebe's eyes, narrowed in a smile. She squeezed an encouragement, wordlessly giving his mistake permission to pass, and then released him. Feeling only slightly mollified, he sat himself down at the head of the table.

The headdress he'd found amusing moments ago suddenly weighed more than felt comfortable. Until this very moment, he hadn't noticed the way the beads made his neck itch. Scratching at the offending spot, he removed the silly-looking object from his head and shoved it beneath his seat.

Someone had passed the pan of ziti, which awaited his disturbance. The smell of the melted cheese and peppery sauce was a stark contrast to the runny omelet and room temperature orange-juice-in-a-fruit-cup that he'd had for lunch on his nineteen-hour flight. His stomach growled, fully aware of which it favored. With a great deal of enthusiasm, he scooped a helping onto his eager plate.

"Careful, Gramps," Chris remarked, "that's Katie's favorite. Don't wanna finish the birthday girl's favorite, do you?"

Said birthday girl, however, seemed to have forgotten the meal altogether. While she stared mournfully at her gift, now in Phoebe's hands, her mother, in an undertone so as not to disturb the rest of the group, determined it inappropriate for the table.

"Wait until dinner's over," she patiently explained. "We don't open presents during the meal. Right?"

Watching her precious gift disappear beneath her mother's seat, Katie glumly agreed, "Right." She stared after it a moment longer, but the only bit she could see past her mom's skirt was a green corner that stuck out behind the chair. Although she returned her attention to her plate, the baked ziti she had anticipated for over a week just didn't taste as good anymore.

* * *

As the meal progressed, the discussion took various turns. At one point, though no one was entirely certain how it happened, Piper and Henry found themselves leaning over either side of Wyatt in a heated debate over the best way to catch an un-catchable criminal.

"Lay a trap?" Henry snorted, "How dumb do you think this guy is? He's been eluding us for three months already. You think he'll just show up if we put a carrot under a cardboard box with a stick?"

"Not catching him doesn't prove the intelligence of the criminal," Piper retorted in a tone forced to sound casual. "It only proves the _lack_ of intelligence of his pursuers."

"Are you saying you think we're idiots down at the station? Is that it?" Henry was on his feet now, knuckles stamped into the tablecloth as he leaned even farther over Wyatt's half-eaten plate.

"What I'm _saying_," Piper stressed, leaning forward to meet his defiance with her own, "is that if 'tailing' him seems to have gotten you no closer than you were three months ago, then trying a new method would be what _most_ people call _intelligent._"

Wyatt, for his part, was trying his best to disappear under the table before either his mother or Henry could blow him up—and he didn't put it past his mortal uncle, either.

Eventually (with restraint courtesy of Leo and Paige), the conversation gave way to another that led them into dessert. With Wyatt, relieved to be out of the line of fire, energetically answering his grandpa's questions about the curriculum in his political science class, Piper called in Chris to help clear the table of its empty and half-empty dishes.

Meanwhile, she retrieved the chocolate-cake-with-pink-icing-and-rainbow-sprinkles from its hideout atop the fridge and rummaged through the junk drawer for the trick candles she had bought the afternoon before. She handed Chris a package of paper princess plates and a handful of plastic forks, which he dropped in a pile in the middle of the table. Once he dimmed the lights, she stuck her head into the dining room and motioned Phoebe inside.

The proud mother carried Katie's birthday cake into the room, trailed by her sister with a cake knife, both women beginning the 'happy birthday' song in two distinctly different keys. The other adults tried to combine the two, resulting in a third key that nobody could identify. Meanwhile, Wyatt and Chris did their best to sing as off-key as possible, voices belting out far above the rest, although sounding the closest by far to the correct tune. They thought themselves quite a riot when they sang their own "improved" version of the age-old song. Prue tried her best to match her brothers' voices, though their deep tones overpowered even her loudest attempt; and Lea stubbornly refused to sing at all, slouched in her chair with folded arms and a firm glare, unwilling to act like the fool that everyone else had so readily embraced. In his own little niche, oblivious to the others, Bobby sang to his own time and tune, grinning with delight. The moment he caught sight of the cake, he forgot the rest of the words.

"—birrrthdayyy… toooo… youuuuu!"

"—smell like… onnnne… toooooo!"

Piper threw her boys a disapproving glare as the cake was set down in front of her niece, but they were too impressed with themselves to notice.

Katie's eyes grew wide, a pale gray-blue that glittered even in the dark. She opened her hands as if to lean on the table, resting the bulk of her weight on them. The cake looked incredible—exactly what she'd described to Aunt Piper. Chocolate with pink icing—but not strawberry because strawberry didn't taste good; vanilla, only vanilla that was pink because Aunt Piper knew how to do that sort of thing, maybe with magic—and lots of rainbow sprinkles on top. Aunt Piper always made the tastiest foods, and she saved her _most_ tastiest for Katie, she always told her—

"Make a wish! Make a wish!" Bobby insisted with impatience.

Katie looked around at the people surrounding her, all nodding to Bobby's request. They had abandoned their seats to crowd around her—Chris with his arm slung over Lea's shoulder, his face supporting a grin that suggested he knew exactly how much the gesture annoyed her; Grandpa behind them, nudging his grandson with his elbow; Prue squeezing between Uncle Leo and Daddy, both of whom stood close enough that their shoulders bumped every time Prue gave them another shove; Aunt Paige and Uncle Henry standing across from her, with Bobby standing tip-toed on his chair to get a better look, his arm clutching Aunt Paige's neck from behind, face peering past her; Aunt Piper standing behind her, waiting to cut the cake, one hand on a large knife and the other gripping the collar of Wyatt's shirt as Wyatt pretended to make a lunge for the cake; and Mommy standing right beside her, one hand resting on the back of Katie's chair, inches away from her skin, clinging tightly to the wood, compensating…

"Don't forget, if you blow out all the candles, your wish comes true. So make it a good one," Chris reminded her. With him momentarily distracted, Lea shoved him off and sent him sprawling into Grandpa, who caught him with a deep chuckle, amused by Lea's cleverly-executed attack.

Katie leaned closer to the cake, to the eight-plus-one-for-good-luck candles that, with the lights off, gave the room a soft glow. This close, she nearly convinced herself she could feel their heat. _They feel warm,_ she thought—but she didn't really know what saying that meant. She didn't get warm, and she didn't get cold, only existed in a state of perpetual 'almost-chilly.' The flickering flames of melting candles reflected a deep orange in her gray eyes. It stared at her, dancing around its wicks, and she wondered if the fire—if it could feel the wick that kept it burning, though it seemed silly to her that the flame of a candle would rely its whole existence upon a single strand. It seemed, frankly, impossible to her that it could need anything when it didn't even lean on the wick, instead hovering above it, untouchable as long as it continued to burn.

She sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, and thought her wish as hard as she could.

* * *

When Katie opened her eyes, one stubborn candle kept burning. She blew it out. A second later, the candle beside it came alight, as if she had blown it back to life. It smirked at her, laughing sparks at her confusion. After a moment, she realized the people surrounding her, their smiles, were laughing, too. She blew out that one, and another burst back into flame. The harder she tried, the more forcefully they relit, sometimes even two at a time. Eventually, she stopped her futile endeavor, chest heaving with exertion. Backing away, she let her grinning mother take over, sprinkling the candles with water until they fizzled out one by one. But by that point it didn't matter—she couldn't blow out the candles.

* * *

"Well." Victor propped his chair up on its two back legs and clapped his hands over a rounded belly. "Piper, it was de-licious, as always."

She smiled at him as she collected dirty silverware from around the table. "Thanks, Dad." A hand freed itself from her bunch to pat her father's shoulder as she passed him. Others were nodding in agreement, except Bobby, too focused on scraping up what was left of his third piece, and Katie, who was idly mashing up the half that was left of her first slice. Piper took no offense; Katie easily lost her appetite, which wasn't very big to begin with. Eyes moving to her sons, one of whom was reaching for yet another slice, she instructed, "Boys, help me clear dessert off the table, would you?" When, groaning, Wyatt and Chris complied, trooping into the kitchen like battered soldiers, she hesitated before asking, "Prue, do you think you could help in the kitchen?"

Scoffing, the girl snapped, "'Course I can wash dishes. How old do you think I _am_?" Piper bit her lip to keep from admonishing the girl, an action Prue both noticed and glowered upon before stomping into the kitchen. A moment later they heard the faucet turn on. Suddenly drained, Piper sat down in Chris's empty seat. The silverware she collected was returned to the table. Phoebe and Paige both watched her with worry but said nothing as Wyatt and Chris filed in and out of the room, collecting everything from the table. Once cleared, the cousins excused themselves and followed Chris up to his room. Wyatt, determined to act like the adult he was, returned to his seat. They chatted for a few minutes, but the men all sensed the tension and decided to quietly excuse themselves as well. Finally, the sisters were left alone.

Phoebe turned a worried eye on her big sister and shifted to the next chair so that there was nothing between them. Paige, too, after a moment, scooted her chair closer, although remained in her seat on the opposite side of the table. "Hon, what's eating you?" the middle sister sighed. "You and Prue are on the cliffs. I can sense her frustration even through the anti-empath blocks we taught her."

Piper's head lowered until her forehead touched her arms, crossed on the table. "Frustration?" she repeated, the word muffled in the crook of her elbow. "Oh, is that what it is? Good." Phoebe and Paige shared a bewildered look. "I was beginning to think she hated me."

"For what?" Paige wondered. "You're the best mom in the world. You taught _me_ how to be a mother when Bobby was born." Phoebe nodded her acquiescence. "What could she possibly resent?"

A little less practical and more sensitive, Phoebe crooned, "What happened?" Attempting sympathy for a pain she still didn't comprehend, she reached beneath Piper's folded arms to draw out a hand, squeezing it with reassurance. Piper glanced up, met her sister's troubled gaze, and forced a smile.

"It'll blow over," she insisted, convincing herself more than her sisters, who still had yet to understand what exactly 'it' was. "The dream she had last week—I told you about that, right?" When Phoebe and Paige nodded she continued, "Well, I guess, I mean—the stuff she must've seen… I can only imagine how it must've affected her and… well…"

"You don't know how to react?" Phoebe guessed.

Miserably, Piper nodded.

A moment passed in silence, during which Phoebe retrieved the other hand and scooted her chair closer so that their shoulders touched. Paige watched for a moment and then, opting for practicality, pointed out, "Well, Phoebe _did_ say Prue felt frustrated…"

Piper looked up, confusion furrowing her brow. "Yeah…" she prompted.

"Well, you said you didn't know what to do. I know it's hard," she rushed to add, trying to sound as full of sympathy as her older sister, "to understand how she's feeling about whatever she saw… But the one thing you _do_ know is that the way you're treating her now frustrates her. That's something you _can_ correct." She stamped her hand on the table for emphasis. "Yeah, she's having a hard time, and I'm _sure_ what she saw was scary. Maybe she wants to come talk to you about but is afraid that you'll treat her like even _more_ of a baby. She just wants to be treated like an adult, Piper."

"She's _not_ an adult," Piper protested, "She's just a child."

"She's almost a teenager." Piper lowered her gaze to the tablecloth, unable to counter the point. Insistent, Paige pressed on, "You said it yourself, all they want at this stage is independence. You're worried about her, and that's legitimate. But she's right to want you to see her as a real person."

Nobody broke the silence, the two younger women waiting for their sister to speak and the latter too conflicted to think of what to say. How could she just let Prue walk out the door like everything was fine and dandy when she _knew_ that what her daughter had seen—well, it had been enough for her son to sacrifice his life to change? What kind of mother would she be to any of her children if she were willing to turn a blind eye to their cries of pain, even ones left unvoiced? But then… was Prue better off like this—treated like a doll reserved for high places and kept out of reach, thoroughly miserable? She sighed, finally looking up to meet two pairs of concerned eyes. Glancing sidelong at Phoebe with a dry smile, she said, jerking her head toward Paige, "Look at this one—been a teacher for nearly fifteen years now, and she still thinks she's a social worker."

They shared a relieved laugh and didn't move to stop Piper when she stood up and headed into the kitchen. However, when she started to tackle the dishes piled into the sink, Phoebe snatched the sponge from her hand and Paige usurped the faucet. Between the two of them they convinced their oldest sister to let the dishwasher do its job, and helped her load it before dragging her into the sunroom, where the men had gathered upon their dismissal. The sisters found seats beside their husbands while, as per an instruction from Piper, Wyatt leapt up to collect his cousins and siblings. They returned from upstairs a few moments later and situated themselves in vacant seats or on the floor. At a nod from Paige, Henry produced from behind him a large, square box wrapped somewhat sloppily in silver paper, as if the wrapping had been an afterthought, and a belated one at that.

Sitting between her parents on the couch, the birthday girl accepted the gift with a gracious, Katie-like smile and carefully began to remove the tape around the edges.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Lea snapped, and snatched from the floor Grandpa's gift, which Phoebe had brought in from the dining room. She had the green paper halfway off before her mother could even begin admonishing her.

"Melinda!" she cried.

"What?" Lea countered, "At the rate she's going we'll be here _forever_."

From behind her mother's arm, Katie murmured, "I don't mind, Mommy." When Phoebe only raised an eyebrow at her younger daughter, the girl insisted, "Really. It'll go faster this way." Lea paused, less interested in unwrapping now that she had received expressed permission, but then seemed to decide her impatience outweighed her rebelliousness, and continued to tear the paper off the box.

Minutes later, Katie had transferred herself to the floor amidst all the discarded wrapping paper. Chris was working to wrestle the childproof packaging off Butt-Kick Barbie (which Paige herself had renamed from Hiker Barbie: Full Terrain). Prue had fetched a knife from the kitchen and was slicing through the tape on the Do-It-Yourself Beaded Jewelry Kit that her own parents had bought. Through all the ruckus, Bobby wriggled off Paige's lap and got his hands on Grandpa's present.

Eventually, fed up, Wyatt snorted, "Wow, Chris, who'd'a thought you'd get your butt kicked by Butt-Kick Barbie?"

Chris scowled. "This stuff is hard to get through!" he complained. "If you're so smart, _you_ open it."

"Fine." When Chris shoved it toward his brother, Wyatt made no move to accept it. Instead, smirking, he pronounced, "Barbie." The box in Chris's hand glowed, flakes of blue scrambling beneath the plastic. When they vanished, the box was left empty, and in Wyatt's hand was the figurine with bleach-blond hair, a plastic smile, and an army-patterned pair of shorts and jacket. Wyatt smiled sweetly as he returned it to his younger brother.

"That's cheating," Chris grumbled, chucking the now-empty box over his shoulder.

"That's _resourceful_," Wyatt corrected with a smirk.

"_That's_ cause for extra chores," their mother pointed out, effectively wiping the grin off one son's face and prompting it on the other's.

"Hey, Grammpa, is this a cat?"

Bobby had gotten his hands on the box of figurines their grandfather had brought back from Singapore and was now rooting around inside it, extracting each piece for individual scrutiny.

"Well, uh, actually—" Victor squinted at the precise sculpture squashed within Bobby's fist. "That looks like a mongoose. They have that in the zoo in Singapore." By the time Victor had finished explaining, Bobby, grown bored of that one, had already discarded it for the next.

"This one's a kangaroo, right?" He waved it in the air to give Victor a better look, although the old man's eyes seemed to have difficulty focusing on the object in motion.

"No, that's a wallaby. Those are similar to kangaroos, see, but they're generally much smaller. Also, their teeth in the back there"—he opened his mouth to point to his own teeth as demonstration—"are a row of straight teeth, and for a kangaroo the teeth are…" When he realized he had lost Bobby's attention, he let the mini-lesson trail off.

At some point over the next half hour, the parents and Victor returned to sit in the dining, each keeping half an ear out for any screaming children. They heard stomping and laughing and shrieking but no sounds to indicate agonizing or near-death encounters. All of a sudden, though, just as Victor was depicting his encounter with an overzealous native, Katie came tearing into the room. She stopped just short of her father's chair and sobbed, "I'm not having fun; I wanna go home!"

Coop stared at his wife, completely at a loss. Even upset, Katie never lost her temper like this. It put too much of a strain on her body that, for her, the anger wasn't worth the effort. What had prompted a reaction so unlike their younger child? "What happened, munchkin?" he asked, voice soft.

"Lea's being mean to me, and I didn't get to open my presents by myself, and my butterfly necklace broke, and I wanna go home!"

Phoebe scrutinized her daughter's pale complexion; the girl had worked herself into a flush that rose to her cheeks, an appearance healthy for anyone else—but Katie never got worked up and never got colored in the sun.

Scooting off her chair to kneel beside her daughter, she soothed, "It's okay, baby doll, it's okay. Are you feeling icky? Is that it? Are you feeling hot? Tell me how you feel."

Hands balling into fists, the girl screamed at the top of her quiet voice, "I'm not feeling warm! I never feel warm! And I don't feel icky! I just wanna go _home!_"

Phoebe spared a glance at her older sister, who, looking just as worried as she, gave an immediate nod. Phoebe turned back to Coop, sighing, "We should probably go. Maybe this was just overwhelming for her. It's been a long day, and she barely napped. Can you go collect Lea? I'll take Katie to the car."

"You want me to heal her?" Paige offered.

Flashing half a smile, Phoebe said, "We'll see how she is in the morning. Maybe it'll pass." She lowered her voice to croon to her daughter, "Come on, baby, let's get your jacket on, okay? We're gonna go home, and maybe we'll have a nice bedtime story before bed. How's that sound, hm? Come on, baby…" She led the sniffling child out of the room with a last backward glance at the tail end of their latest family dinner.

* * *

**What's there to say? Of course I'm apologetic, but that doesn't condone the fact that I've left you guys hanging for the better part of a year. I'm working as fast as I can to finish the story so that I can post it all - but I also want to make sure it's decently written. I debated very much with this chapter. If I gave myself more time, I'd fix it up properly. That's why a casual dinner all of a sudden turned into this dramatic to-do with everyone leaking their psychological disturbances all over the place. When I spread out the writing over a couple of weeks, with space in between the day I write and the day I edit, I can write a calmer, more _normal _chapter. But I decided - at least this once - I had to give up striving for excellence in favor of getting it to you this week. I'm unhappy with the ridiculous turn it took, but that's the way the world works. Can't like everything, can you? In any case, a couple of other notes:**

**Number one, since there is debate over this depending on the school, I want to clarify what I meant by Kindergarten. Some schools have the grades, in ascending order, as nursery, primary (_i.e._ pre-K), Kindergarden, and then first grade. Some schools have nursery, Kindergarden, primary (_i.e. _pre-1A), and then first grade. Because I grew up with the former, that's what I wrote - so the Kindergarden here would be the five-turning-six-year-old. Not a major plot development, but I wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.**

**Along the same lines, in case anyone uses a different term, the word "string beans" is the same food as "green beans." (Better safe than sorry, right?)**


	13. 12 Of Breakthroughs and Bedtime Whispers

**- Of Breakthroughs and Bedtime Whispers -  
**_"Silence is the most powerful scream." - anonymous_

* * *

The next afternoon, when Wyatt, Chris, and Prue returned from school, Leo assured them that, according to Phoebe's update, Katie was acting much more like herself again. Perhaps it had been the long hours that got to her, over-exhaustion. Piper, their father had added, stayed late at P3 to train a new bartender and wouldn't be home until some time that evening. As soon as he offered to throw together a quick dinner, however, each suddenly had somewhere to be.

"I've got to spend time with my charge," Chris said as he slipped past his father to grab an apple from the fridge. Biting into it, he added, crunching, "Don't want the kid to think I've forgotten about him, and I didn't see him at _all_ over the weekend." Patting his father's shoulder as he passed, the boy offered a sympathetic, "Sorry, Pops," and then exited the room.

Wyatt was quick to follow with, "Goin' over to Sam's to study. I'll probably be there late," and orbed to his room to change into a smelly trench coat and his leather hunting boots.

Expression somewhat desperate, Leo turned to his daughter, the only hope left for some company that afternoon. "What about you, kiddo?" he asked in a last-ditch effort, "Can I make you something for dinner?"

She smiled too widely. "Gee, Dad, I really _would_ love that, but Morgan invited me over for supper and I already agreed to go." She shouldered her knapsack, fidgeting with the strap.

Frowning, Leo remarked, "On a school night? You sure that's a good idea? Don't you have homework you should probably do?"

"Well… Mom okayed it yesterday, so…" She nibbled at her lip, eyeing him with wide eyes.

"Oh." Another frown. "Okay, then. I guess if your mother's okay with it… Do you need a ride?"

"Nah," she called, already halfway out of the room, "I'll walk. Thanks, Dad." Before he could call her back, she raced up to her room to call Morgan and invite herself over for dinner.

It wasn't so much that their father _couldn't_ cook. Certainly he wasn't as bad as Aunt Phoebe, and he could even whip up a fairly decent omelet when the need arose. But… well… he wasn't a Piper Halliwell, and no one could deny that.

* * *

A knock on the door made Chris look up from his open knapsack, which he had begun to root through in search of—what did he need again? Homework? Unlikely. But why had he opened…?

"Are you busy?" Prue's voice chirped. She stood outside his door, her face peering in front around the corner. When his eyes met hers briefly, she took that as an invitation and shuffled past the threshold.

For a fraction of a second he paused, threw a second glance her way, and—resuming—grunted, "What's it look like?"

"Oh…" She waited a beat to see if he would look at her again. When he didn't, she tiptoed further into the room and said, "Well, I was just wondering if, you know, on your way to your charge you could sort of, you know, drop me off at Morgan's house?"

"Go ask Wyatt," he muttered without looking up. "I have to finish stuff first."

"Okay, thanks." She bounded out of the room, shrugging her shoulders at Chris's rejection. He had a good point, after all, if he didn't plan on leaving for a while. Asking Wyatt would probably get her there faster.

After a couple more seconds, Chris renounced his fruitless endeavor. If he couldn't remember what he was looking for, how would he know even if he found it? Deciding his time could be better utilized elsewhere, he zipped up the knapsack and dumped it on the floor, kicking it beneath his bed. Instead, he shrugged on a light coat, shut his bedroom light, and orbed to Jake.

Meanwhile, Prue knocked on Wyatt's bedroom door. She waited a beat and then, receiving no answer, pushed open the door just in time to see the last of Wyatt's orbs melt away. A part of her considered calling him back, but he had said he needed to study. She didn't want to waste his time like that. Sighing, she backed out of his room and closed the door, heading back down the hall. Maybe she could convince Chris now that her other option had been exhausted. "Chris!" she called, not surprised when she got no response. "Chris, Wyatt already left, so could you…" She pushed open his door without knocking this time, figuring yelling his name had been enough of a warning—but the room was altogether empty. It was dark and Chris was nowhere to be found. Apparently he had left earlier than anticipated.

_He must've finished his stuff quicker than he thought he would,_ Prue told herself as she returned to her own bedroom to find her coat. She slipped into it and headed downstairs, hesitating only briefly at the front door. The walk spanned only a few blocks, of course, but the evening _was_ rather chilly, and she never felt comfortable walking in the dark.

* * *

When Chris orbed into Jake's room, it was empty. Clothes had been left strewn across the floor in a mess that would have given his own mother conniptions. His thoughts automatically jumped to pawn this on Jake's mom as yet another display of her glaring inadequacy, but as vile a creature as she happened to be, Chris knew he couldn't fault her for a bedroom in disarray. His Aunt Paige's house looked about the same on any given day. Besides, even with a perfectly competent and obsessively organized mother, Chris's own room often got out of hand. _She's done plenty wrong, _he forced himself to realize, _but you can't blame her for things she didn't actually do. _

He heard the light pitter-patter of footsteps in the hall that got louder as they grew closer, and then the door opened. Jake stood with his shoes in one hand, other hand on the doorknob. He stopped when he saw Chris, somewhat taken aback, but then continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "Oh," he said, "hi," and then walked around Chris to dump his sneakers beside his bed.

"Why'd you have your sneakers off?" Chris wondered, backing up so he could sit on Jake's unmade bed as the boy circled the room, picking up the pajamas he'd discarded on the floor earlier that morning.

"Thought Mommy was sleeping," the boy responded. "Didn't wanna wake her." After a few minutes of silence (during which Chris had to clench his teeth to refrain from restarting the conversation himself), Jake paused, hands laden with dirty laundry. Quietly and of his own volition, he added, "She's not. Sleeping, I mean."

Chris forced his tone to remain casual, as before. "Oh?"

Without looking up from the clothes in his arms, the boy shook his head. "No." He kicked open the hamper with his knee and began to stuff the clothes inside. "She left me a note on the table. She went to ask for a job."

Jake still wouldn't look up, which gave Chris pause to ponder the care with which his charge spoke. Whatever the importance or insignificance of this news, Jake wanted him to know—so Chris paid attention. "You mean, like an interview?" he asked.

"Dunno. That's just what she said in her note." As long as he didn't look up, he didn't actually have to admit he was talking to someone. Instead, he kept his eyes on the clothes bulging out of his hamper. Generally they remained there until laundry day, the last day of every month, but September thirtieth Mommy'd forgotten. It had been a long month. So now his hamper was overflowing, and how could he keep stuffing it for another nine days when already the lid wouldn't close—?

Suddenly, his angel was beside him, waiting for him to look up. With an inward sigh, Jake stopped his futile effort and finally acknowledged his angel's presence. Chris was grinning—in that way that made Jake _really_ nervous, like he was about to break the rules and, from the looks of it, get Jake in trouble with him. Fidgeting, Jake stared at him.

"My mom used to have a rule that when my hamper got full, I had to carry it all the way down to the washing machine." Jake's eyes grew wide with surprise. His angel had a mom, too, just like he did. Was Chris's mom an angel, like him? Or perhaps were angels all G-d's children, and Chris's mother was G-d's wife? "You know what me and my brother used to do to make the dirty clothes stay down?"

A brother? How many angels lived up there in Heaven? If they were all really G-d's children, how many brothers and sisters did Chris _have_?

In wonderment, Jake shook his head.

"I can show you," Chris offered.

"Okay…"

When Chris stepped closer and extended his hands, Jake jumped back in surprise. The grin on Chris's face shrank, and Jake immediately felt guilty—but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. Lowering his head, he instead mumbled, "N-never mind. I don't wanna see…"

"Jake." The boy blushed. "Hey, Jake, look at me." When he did so, glancing out through the spaces between his bangs, Chris forced himself to smile. "Do I look mad?" No response was forthcoming. "Hey, do I?" A shrug. After a moment of uncomfortable quiet, Chris said, "You know… there is a way I can show you without… you know." He motioned lifting something, and Jake watched his hands with caution.

Curiosity getting the better of him, the boy eventually squeaked, "How?"

"You have to hold very still," Chris instructed. "D'you think you can do that?"

Eagerly, Jake nodded. He felt a lot calmer when, rubbing his hands together, Chris took two steps back. Holding his breath, Jake kept as still as he could, trying to imagine himself in the most dangerous position in the world, where one movement could mean his gruesome demise—a vicious dog, teeth bared and glittering, circling him, sniffing out its prey; standing at the edge of a volcano they'd just learned about in school, red-and-orange lava bubbling only feet below, ready to explode; hiding under the slide all recess to avoid Dustin's meaty fingers; his mother's voice behind the door, scr—

"Okay, open your eyes," Chris instructed, because, without intending to, Jake had shut them. He debated opening them one at a time but, after a split-second decision, threw them both open at once. Chris was standing only a foot away, hands outstretched but making no move to touch his charge. His arms trembled slightly. And then Jake realized—his feet weren't touching the ground!

"I'm… flying," he whispered in awe. He wanted to flap his arms to see if he could direct himself but remembered at the last second Chris's instruction to stay still. He stopped himself just in time but ended up wobbling a bit as a result.

"Whoa there," Chris said, voice straining with exertion. "Time to put you down."

Jake didn't want to go back to the floor, not ever. He wanted to go higher and higher until he couldn't see his house anymore, and he wanted to never come back down again—but he was already being lowered to the hamper, still overstuffed with clothes. How oddly… _normal_.

"This is what me and my brother would do," Chris said, and then suddenly Jake was sitting on top of a pile of dirty laundry. With his added weight, the pile sank down. When Chris prompted, "Try jumping," the pile shrank even more, so much so that, once Jake hopped off, the hamper could close. Only the cover, slightly raised, gave any indication of the amount of clothes stuffed within.

When Jake looked up, he was grinning from ear to ear. Chris smiled back.

At length, he said, "So. It sounds like your mom's not coming home for dinner, so what about if I take you to get something to eat?"

Jake stood blinking for a moment, bewildered. "You mean like… a restaurant?"

"Nothing fancy," Chris said, "just pizza or something. What d'you say?"

"Uh, well… Mommy could come home while we were away and…"

"Not if she's getting interviewed," Chris pointed out. "Come on, kiddo. We'll be back before your mom gets in. Let's get you something to eat. Do you like pizza?"

"Yeah," Jake admitted, softly, as though his admission betrayed his mother somehow.

"Well, come on, then." Chris headed toward the door, saying, "I know just the place." As soon as he got to the front door, Jake trailing after him with reluctant steps, he stopped. "Hang on, it'll be faster if we orb."

"If we what?" Jake echoed.

"Orb," Chris said, and then explained, "That's how angels get from place to place."

"You mean the blue lights?"

"Exactly. That'll be faster. It'll make sure we get back in time. But… I have to be touching you to take you along with me."

"Oh." Jake seemed to ponder that for a moment, eyes moving from Chris's face to his hand and then back to his face. Very slowly, he said, "O-kay. I guess."

Chris tried to swallow his grin. To cover it, he quickly promised, "I'll only hold your hand, if you want." Jake nodded at this, blessed his angel with a grateful smile, and dipped his hand into the outstretched one offered to him. They were gone in a swirl of blue before Jake knew what happened.

* * *

Chris returned home a couple of hours later, his grin almost drunk with satisfaction. His parents were sitting together in the living room, Piper having arrived home only half an hour before her son. They spoke in murmurs, leaning close to one another with quiet solemnity, something Chris's curiosity normally would have flagged. This time, distracted, he almost didn't even see them sitting there. When he passed the living room, Piper looked up. Her own expression softened when confronted with the obvious satisfaction reflected on her son's face.

"What's put you in such a good mood?" she wondered.

"Nothin'. Just in a good mood."

Leo piped up, "How was it with your charge tonight?"

"It was fine. Just went out for some pizza, that's all. Nothing too special." Despite the casualty forced into his tone, his father knew to appreciate the small step Chris had achieved. He broke into a grin.

"Chris, that's excellent! I'm so glad you seem to be getting somewhere with him. I knew you wouldn't have a problem forging a connection."

Chris's eyes lit up, eager to share his excitement with someone who seemed to understand the significance of this simple milestone. "Yeah, I know. I totally didn't think today would be any different. I don't know what it was, even. We were just hanging out and whatever and he just—yeah, I don't know what changed."

"He's coming to recognize that you're willing to give him the time he needs, that you aren't going anywhere." Leo patted his son's arm.

"Yeah," Chris murmured as he glided past them; then, with more confidence, "Yeah. Thanks, Dad." A moment later they heard his footsteps thumping up the stairs.

With a sigh, Piper turned back to her husband. "Why does he talk to you about his charge but he won't tell me a thing?"

"Piper…"

"No," she interrupted, "don't tell me I'm imagining it because I'm not. You know all about this Jake boy. You get to share in Chris's achievements while I sit here completely in the dark. Why won't he talk to me?"

"Because you're his mother," Leo reasoned.

"And you're his father," she grumpily returned. "What's that got to do with it?"

"But I'm also a former whitelighter. If I were _just_ 'Dad,' he probably wouldn't tell me either. Besides," he continued when Piper opened her mouth to argue, "let's not get sidetracked. We can only worry about one kid at a time."

Piper closed her mouth. At length, she acknowledged, "Right. Prue." After a brief pause, she murmured, "So what do we do?"

"I could try talking to her," her husband offered.

"No, no. She wouldn't appreciate that. Paige is right—I need to treat her like an adult." She moved to stand, but Leo pulled her back down beside him on the couch. When she looked up at him, bewildered, he said, words soft, "You're a great mother, Piper."

Dryly, she remarked, "Tell that to my kids, maybe. I think they forget it sometimes."

When she got up this time, he let her go, and said after her, "So do you," as she headed toward the stairs.

* * *

When Prue heard a soft knock on her door, she paused momentarily to calculate. Wyatt didn't knock and Chris never came to her room anyway, which left one of two options, both of which likely meant she was in for it. Snapping her diary shut and tucking it under her pillow, she called, "Come in." Her mother's face peered past the door.

"Hey, sweetheart," she said, smiling.

"Look," Prue began before her mother could utter a word, "Morgan really _did_ invite me for dinner, and I _meant_ to ask you about it. I just forgot, that's all."

Piper blinked for a moment just to make sure Prue had finished, and then replied, "Huh?"

"You… Didn't Dad tell you? I mean, isn't that why you came up to talk to me?"

"No, sweetheart, not at all. I hope her mom served something good, though. I'm glad you got to spend some time there. Morgan seems like a really sweet girl."

Prue said nothing, opting for silence so she wouldn't miss the catch when it came. No mention of unfinished homework or of lying to her dad—what was going on here?

When Piper realized Prue didn't plan to respond, she forced the discussion forward. "Actually, I came up here to talk about what happened the other day… With your dreams, that is."

The girl remembered suddenly that she was supposed to be mad at her mother, and promptly switched on a glower. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, her voice brittle.

"I know, I know," Piper said quickly. "What I wanted to say really is that I'm sorry for how I've been treating you since then." Prue stood frozen before her mother, who had shuffled forward to sit on the unmade bed. The girl's hands remained in fists at her sides, white-knuckled; her teeth clenched; eyes like stone. Piper continued, "I didn't know what to do to help. I was worried about you. I wish you'd tell me what you saw so I could understand what you're going through—but that's _your_ choice to make. Until you make it, I need to treat you like the adult you are. I'm sorry I wasn't doing that. It's just that I love you and I didn't want anything to happen to you."

"That's no excuse," Prue snapped, latching onto the only statement that allowed her to cling to her ebbing anger. Even with that, the intensity of emotion continued to bleed out of her. She tried to retrieve it, but all she really wanted by this point was to forget about the brick wall she had wedged between herself and her mommy.

"You're right, it isn't," Piper agreed. She stood up then. Prue thought that if her mom tried to hug her now, she probably wouldn't resist—but she couldn't bring herself to initiate one and Piper was moving toward the door. Piper said, "I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do. I just want you to know that _if _you want to talk—about anything, not just this—I'd love to hear." She left Prue alone with weighted words, tumultuous thoughts, and her own heavy breaths.

Later that night, though, after Prue had spent an hour in bed, unable to sleep, her resolve finally crumbled. Pillow wet with frustrated tears, the twelve-year-old slipped out from under her blanket, padded across the hall, and crawled into her mother's bed.

"Mommy?" she whispered. Piper rolled over to face the voice. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, waiting for her daughter to make the first move.

After a moment's hesitation, Prue finally found her voice. In a whisper, she told her mother, "Morgan's mom bought dessert from Pathmark."

* * *

**Author's Note: Chapter twelve, nine months in waiting. Many apologies to whomever might still be reading. I have been away from internet for - you guessed it (or maybe you didn't) - nine months. Been studying abroad for a year, and the school I'm in doesn't provide or allow internet access, except under certain circumstances and at specific times. Those circumstances do not happen to include updating a story you've been working on for the last few years. I've been working diligently to further this story to update for when I get back. I happen to be on a short vacation, back home for a few days. I was determined to update at least one chapter while here. I'm going back in a few days, and I'll be there until summer - so apologies in advance for the next five and a half to six weeks. However, you'll be pleased to know that, since I have been working on BLD in the meantime, when I get back updating will (hopefully) be a cinch! **

**Miss you guys very much, and I'm sorry to those of you who gave up on waiting. It's unfortunate, though understandable.**

**Looking forward to "seeing" you guys in six weeks' time! In the meantime, stay safe, stay happy, and be well.**

**P.S. A quote I didn't end up using for the chapter but find so beautiful that I can't deny my remaining audience the poetry of its words: _"A sudden silence... reveals how dearly we must pay for the invention of speech." - Emile M. Cioran. _It'll mean its own thing to each person and certainly won't mean for you what it does for me, but I wanted to share it nonetheless. So here it is, shared. Viola. Interpret it as it pleases you.**


	14. 13 Of Battles and Belligerence

**- Of Battles and Belligerence - **

"_Only a man who knows what it is like to be defeated can reach down to the bottom of his soul and come up with the extra ounce of power it takes to win when the match is even."  
_– _Muhammad Ali_

* * *

The next afternoon, Chris skipped the bus ride home and stopped off at Jake's house. In a flurry of orbs, he arrived in his charge's bedroom to find the boy already hard at work. Hunched over his desk, he pored over a book the teacher had assigned a week before. When Chris knocked on the wall, announcing his presence, Jake looked up, grinned, and discarded the novel into his knapsack.

"Hi, Chris," he said brightly.

It took very little cajoling on Chris's part to get Jake out of the house. With his knapsack slung over one shoulder, he dragged Jake over to the park three blocks down, where the after-school crowd had already begun to gather. Jake raced off to join a classmate who waved him over, leaving Chris behind to find himself a seat amidst the hoards of parents and nannies. They hovered around the benches, conversing in nasally voices, discussion things like tuition and after-school clubs.

"My daughter practices her flute every night for half an hour before supper," one woman said imperiously.

Distinctly uncomfortable in the crowd, he glided away. A few feet away, he found a seat in the dirt by a naked tree, its branches extended above him in a crisscross of bark. He settled himself there, dumping his knapsack at his side and leaning back against the tree's thick trunk.

At some point, noticing him sitting alone, Jake scampered over.

"Come play with us!" he begged, but Chris shook his head, smiling at the invitation.

"No, I'd ruin the game," he countered. "I'm too big to play hide-and-seek. There's nowhere for me to hide—No, don't stay here," he insisted when Jake, disheartened, moved to sit beside him. "You go on and play. I don't need any company. Trust me, we angels have plenty to keep us busy."

Jake looked at him askance, nibbling at his bottom lip as he considered his whitelighter through half-lidded eyes. After a pause, he said, very slowly, "All right…" and returned to the game at a trot. He did play, but another fifteen minutes later he came back and collapsed beside Chris, grinning.

"You wanna go back home?" Chris asked.

"No, not yet," the boy replied. He lay there, content just not moving, and started up at the pockets of sky within the canopy of branches. After a few minutes, he finally sat up and squeezed beside Chris to claim a space against the tree trunk. They spent the remainder of their time watching all the bizarre varieties of people who passed through with their kids, dogs, and bicycles.

Meanwhile, Chris's thoughts spun. He glanced at the boy, who, to all appearances, seemed like any other bright-eyed face at the park. How he carried such resilience within him, Chris didn't know. He also had no idea how long this impossible strength would last. A child could only take so much in one lifetime.

_This is as good a time as any, _Chris thought to himself, and then, sucking in a breath, steeled himself for an argument. Jake still hadn't noticed him staring. Good. Chris didn't want this to sound rehearsed.

In a deliberately casual tone, he remarked, "You ever heard of a thing called social services?"

Jake stiffened. The muscles in his arms stilled, instantly cautious. William Hool had gotten involved with stuff like that. One day, he'd been in class; the next—gone. They never saw him again. Everyone said he'd been taken away from his mom and dad, sent to live with other people, complete strangers. Social services took him, they said. When Jake glanced over, Chris was still watching the passersby, looking blithely unaware of the importance of his inquiry.

Lips tight, Jake nodded.

"I was just thinking…" Chris said, treading slowly, still not looking at his charge. "I mean, you could—tell—if they knew about what your mom does—"

Furious, Jake jerked away. "No!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. In one fluid motion, he lunged to his feet and began to storm toward the street. At first too stunned by the fervor displayed, Chris forced himself to recover. Sighing, he collected his knapsack and hurried to catch up.

"Jake!" he called. "Jake, I didn't mean to—"

Jake spun back around, red splotches blooming on his cheeks, hate etched into his forehead. "Shut up, Chris!" he shouted. "Just leave me 'lone! I don't wanna talk to you anymore!" He stomped all the way to the curb but there was forced to stop—his mom didn't let him cross big streets by himself.

Across the park, heads turned. Offering a sheepish smile, Chris shrugged and followed the boy. One woman in done-up hair and a conservative gray suit turned back to her friends with a snigg, "If that were _my _son's babysitter, I'd fire him." Another, a full-breasted nanny in jeans and a t-shirt, snorted, "I'd'a spanked that boy."

At the end of the sidewalk, Chris tried to calm down Jake, who—one his part—did all he could to ignore Chris completely. "Jake, look—" Chris tried, but Jake turned away, mouth set in a firm, thin line. "Jake…"

"I wanna go home," the boy said stubbornly. "I gotta finish my homework." He folded his arms, mimicking what he'd seen his teacher do. With her it always seemed to get what she wanted, but it wasn't doing a great job now. The angel was still standing there.

"Jake, I'm sorry…" When his charge didn't respond, Chris sighed, resigned. "We'll have to find an enclosed place," he said, "so no one will see us orb." Without a word to pass between them, they walked back the way they had come. Jake scraped the toes of his sneakers against the pavement, staring at his feet. A few yards off the playground, they found a spot heavily veiled by a cluster of evergreen trees, short but adequate.

Finally, stopping, Chris dared to breach the cloak of silence. "Can I just say one thing?" Jake scowled at the leaves crunched under his feet, wordless. Chris promised, "Just one thing."

Reluctantly, Jake allowed a gruff, "_What?_"

A hand shoved roughly through his hair, Chris sighed. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said at last. "I know your mom's… important to you, okay? I just thought… but I was wrong. I'm really sorry." Searchingly, he tried to will Jake to make eye contact, but Jake's eyes never left his shoes, expression too thick for Chris to even begin to decipher.

At length, when Chris started to think Jake wouldn't respond at all and would make Chris wait indefinitely, the boy lifted his eyes to sit somewhere around Chris's chin. "I can't leave my mom," he stated flatly. "You can't tell."

"I _wouldn't_," Chris insisted. "I wasn't going to. I meant for _you_ to… I'd never betray your trust like that." Not for a moment did Jake believe _that. _Grave, Chris paused, finally catching his charge's eye. "I won't tell anyone without asking you first. I promise."

Slowly, Jake's shoulders inched back down, uncoiled. A bit. "Okay," he said, voice softer than air.

Chris released a breath of air. "We cool?" he asked. The boy, who seemed eager to brush the entire episode under the rug, shrugged. For now, Chris understood this was the best he would get, and ruefully accepted it. Respecting Jake's unspoken desire, he dropped the subject and let it settle in the dirt at their feet. "We should head back." When he held out his hand, Jake hesitated for a long moment before finally bypassing the outstretched hand and gripping Chris's upper arm. Chris had lost ground today, he could tell. To gain it back would be difficult. They disappeared in a tornado of light. Left behind remained their fight, unburied, by no means forgotten.

They orbed first to Jake's house. Immediately, without even speaking, Jake went to his desk to continue his work. Chris knew not to stay. He didn't need to be an empath to know his very presence served as an intrusion here. Thoroughly disheartened, he returned to the manor.

* * *

_[Sunday, October 27__, 2019]_

The stench of burning flesh spread through the kitchen, leaving the air dry and acrid. From his seat beside the stovetop brew, Chris choked out a loud series of coughs. Arms folded across the countertop, he cushioned his head neatly in the space between his elbows. Beside him stood Paige, so deeply engrossed in their brew that she seemed oblivious to the boy she was tutoring. Or so said boy convinced himself—until she said aloud, "Chris, come stir this while I get more powdered toadstool; the potion's looking a bit peaky. And remember what I told you about keeping your wrist straight."

With a sigh, Chris scooted his stool over to take Paige's place, accepting the proffered spoon from her hand. She relinquished her spot to him and went to the cabinets to root through their stock of ingredients. Chris dunked the wooden spoon into the extra-large, stainless steel cauldron that his mother had purchased years earlier at a gypsy fair. He circled it twice clockwise around the edges, then switched directions and did it again. Although he tried to ignore it, curiosity tempted him. As a quick precaution, he shot a glance over his shoulder to make sure his aunt's attention was still occupied. Then, ignoring the long-since engrained rule not to stick his nose into unknown substances, he leaned forward to peer inside. The endeavor was rewarded with a face-full of cloudy lavender mist. Immediately, his lungs protested the unexpected intrusion, expunging the trespasser with a deep, firm cough. Chris swiped at watering eyes and then checked to assure himself that Paige hadn't noticed. For the remainder of the task, he stirred at arm's length.

A couple of minutes later, Paige returned to his side. "How's it looking?" she asked. With the palm of her hand, she waved away the plume of smoke so that the brew became visible.

_Oh… _Chris mused._ Could've done that…_

Aloud, he stated with confidence, "Looks good to me." Paige tilted her head to stare at him, one eyebrow raised. Chris squirmed. "What?" he said defensively.

The second eyebrow rose to join the first. All she said was, "Hm. Thought you were smarter than that." Chris ducked his head, but not quick enough to hide his blush. How she knew, he had no idea. Did his face carry some leftover markings from the potion's smoke? He squinted at the side of the cauldron, using it as a mirror to gauge his appearance, but it was too misted over by the heat from the flame.

"It doesn't show," said Paige, amusement tingeing her tone. "I just know you."

Shoulders hunched, the boy muttered a response before falling into sullen silence.

Gently, Paige pushed Chris's hand to the side in order to sprinkle in a fistful of fine, white and pink powder. As it settled, she watched with scrutiny. At length, she determined, "That's _much_ better," and wiped her hands clean on the leg of her pants.

Frowning, Chris squinted into the cauldron. Without the smoke playing interference, he could see it clearly now. He tilted his head to the left, then to the right. When, eyebrows raised, he voiced his confusion—"But it's the exact same color!"—Paige only shook her head. "Chris, it's darker by at least three half shades," she sighed. "_Tell _me you see the difference."

_Oh, three half shades, sure,_ he thought morosely to himself. _Whatever _that_ means… _Out loud, however, he said nothing.

For now, Paige let the subject drop. They had plenty of time to study the shades of various potions at a later date. Right now they had to practice proper timing. Thanks to half an hour's worth of demonstration, Chris's stirring had finally become consistent. Now he fell into a steady rhythm almost without thinking and maintained it with minimal effort. _Which presents its own set of problems,_ Paige noted as her nephew's eyes glazed over—_keeping him focused._ To collect his attention, she loudly cleared her throat; but his mind was already too far gone to notice, or he ignored her. Either way, he paid her no heed until her firm hand clasped his shoulder, making him jump.

"Come on, Chris, focus," she half implored of the boy. "This could save someone's life one day."

Far from sobering him, the remark only brought a smirk to his face. The poorly-concealed snort depicted exactly what he thought of _that_. "Right, Aunt Paige," he retorted, slouching lower in his seat. "A potion that 'diminishes the potency of one's symptoms but leaves the underlying cause of those symptoms untouched.'" Paige blinked in surprise, for a moment too taken aback to come up with a response. Her nephew absorbed far more than she assumed he had. When else had he feigned ignorance, taking in everything? How many times did he play stupid—but when push came to shove, proved himself much more aware than they gave him credit for? Before she could ponder the implications, he had continued, "Which means basically, if I break my leg, the potion will making my pain go away but the bone will still be broken, so I still won't be able to walk on it. Very helpful." He stopped stirring long enough to give her a pointedly bored stare. "As far as useless potions go…" Purposefully, the thought trailed off.

"Just stir, Chris," Paige sighed.

While he dutifully—if begrudgingly—followed her instruction, Paige searched in the cupboard for the asphodel root that would neutralize the poisonous effects of mixing billings' root and essence of toadstool. "It's best to use a freshly picked root and chop it immediately before adding it to your brew," she intoned for her nephew's benefit. For all she could observe, he appeared to be disregarding the information completely but then again, she couldn't be sure he wasn't once again simply putting on an act. "But that solution, while most potent, isn't very practical." She extracted a container of chopped asphodel root and set it down beside Chris. "This works well enough in ninety percent of the potions you'll end up brewing in your life." She paused, and then added, "Unless you become a necromancer, that is."

At this, Chris perked up. "Why? What's a necromancer have that we don't?"

"Oh, _now_ you're suddenly interested," his aunt remarked with a laugh. She dumped in a few tablespoons of the asphodel chunks and then usurped the wooden spoon just long enough to mix two counterclockwise rotations. "Clockwise," she now instructed, handing it back to the boy.

"What's a necromancer do?" he insisted stubbornly, prepared to wait in that exact position until she gave in. Off his aunt's raised eyebrow, however, he quickly changed his mind, dunked the spoon beneath the surface, and began to stir.

Satisfied with his compliance, Paige explained, "Necromancers deal with the brink of life and death, which in and of itself is a volatile plane of existence. Any 'tween' place is, by definition, volatile because it exists in a state of perpetual 'almost.' You're _almost _dead, or _almost_ alive, but you're not meant to remain like that. The universe needs distinct definitions, not vague something-or-others."

Heavily disappointed, Chris sighed. Only in this family could a topic as fascinating as necromancy morph into the monster of boring lectures. But once Paige got started… At this point, it was best to simply let her talk herself out.

Unaware of Chris's rapidly decreasing interest, the witch elaborated, "Because of the delicate state they work with, a necromancer's potions tend to use excessive amounts of billings' root and essence of toadstool, which means that a regular, pre-crushed asphodel root doesn't have enough power to counteract the poisonous reaction. Its strength ebbs over time—which is why you absolutely _cannot_ use any form of asphodel that expired, not even a day past its expiration date. Best case, it'll do nothing. That's _best_ case." She paused heavily to make sure Chris heard the gravity of her warning. Once, realizing she would wait, Chris hurriedly nodded, she continued, "For a necromancer, it's needed at the peek of its potency. That's why most necromancy is done on All Hallow's Eve. That's when the herbs and flowers pack their biggest punch. Not to mention the veils of the tween planes fall away."

Finally, Chris's groan cut short her impromptu lecture. In despair, he moaned, "You're supposed to be the _cool_ aunt."

Scoffing, Paige replied, "I _am_ the cool aunt." She went to put away the asphodel root.

Chris snorted. "Whatever." If this was cool, he held out no hope for the rest of the family. The thought was so utterly outrageous that he couldn't even _pretend_ to support her delusions. Still, she seemed confident enough that nothing he said would sway her belief, so he didn't try to. Instead, propping his cheek on a fist, he refocused his attention on mixing. For a few minutes, the only noise came from the splashing and clunking of the spoon. Liquid bubbled up against the brim and, a few times, came close to overflowing, though it never actually did. Eventually, bored with silence, Chris piped up, "How will a pain-soothing potion be useful for All Hallow's Eve anyway?"

Paige set a jar down on the countertop. "It's always important to be stocked up; you never know what you might need," she answered evasively. With some difficulty, she popped open the cap and pushed the jar across the counter to her nephew. "Add the pixie wings."

"Pixie wings is murder," Chris grumbled, though he obeyed, if reluctantly. Using only the tips of his fingers, he dug out a pair of sparkling, transparent wings.

"And what's the next ingredient?" his aunt prompted. When he said nothing, not even bothering to try, she supplied dully, "Snakeweed," and sighed. "Chris, you need to get this."

"Why?" Chris snorted. "When will I not have the Book of Shadows but somehow be in the presence of a stove, a cauldron, and a fully stocked cupboard?"

At first, Paige opened her mouth to argue, then, pausing momentarily, seemed to decide a debate so ridiculous did not merit her time or effort. Instead, she swept up a few of the ingredients they had already used and returned them to their cabinets. By the time she finished, Chris was slouched low on his wobbly stool, torso half-draped over the counter. Forgoing the concoction he was meant to watch, his eyes meticulously followed the second hand on the clock, which ridiculed his imprisonment with a mocking _ticktickticktick._ Paige pressed her hand into his shoulder, straightening his posture.

"This part is delicate, Chris," she warned. "You need to stir for forty-four seconds in rhythmic, counterclockwise circles. If you lose count, your potion will cook in the wrong places and become absolutely useless."

Although Chris gave a solemn nod, as soon as Paige turned around to put away the pixie wings, he rolled his eyes at her back. Still, he counted as he stirred. _One, two, three… This is ridiculous… seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven… What a waste of time. When would someone use a potion like this anyhow? Aunt Paige is just looking for ways to keep me busy… thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven…_

The sound of the front door slamming shut made Chris look up. Piper's voice called to them with a businesslike, "We've got a demon," as she marched through to the kitchen, dumping her keys and purse on the dining room table as she passed.

"Thank goodness for that," Chris sighed. He shook out the spoon and moved to stand.

"Chris," Paige hissed, "your potion—!" But it had already begun to sizzle. Purple liquid rose to the lip of the cauldron and bubbled over.

As Paige snatched up a dishtowel, attempting the futility of mopping up the liquid faster than it could spill, Chris merely stared. He made no move to help clean the mess he had caused. Magenta spread everywhere, staining the countertop a discolored, raspberry hue.

Piper, in an act that was strangely out of character, disregarded the mess completely. Without even a glance on her part, the scene froze; flame, concoction, and all. "Not important," she said sharply. Paige ogled in disbelief. The woman who had spared no one the wrath of her consternation in the face of muddy footprints across her floor—the woman who insisted on scrubbing her dishes before letting the dishwasher run—_she_, leave a mess for later? Never.

"Who are you and what've you done with my sister?"

Piper rolled her eyes. "This doesn't mean I'm letting you get away with it," she clarified. "As soon as we're finished, I'm sending Chris back into this kitchen with a rag and some soap."

Chris groaned—_thanks, Aunt Paige,_ he thought, wishing at that moment for a spark of telepathy so he could make his aunt aware of his gushing gratitude. Meanwhile, Paige relaxed. _That_ sounded more like the Piper that she knew and (sometimes) loved. As she set down the dishtowel, her sister explained, "Phoebe called me at the club. You know those women who've been going missing lately? Premonition—they're witches. She didn't get a good enough look to identify the demon responsible, but she said the next attack is coming. Soon." All thought of the botched potion vanished as Chris and his aunt followed Piper into the conservatory to set up shop and begin their hunt. "Phoebe's already on her way over. Paige, can you pick up Leo from Magic School and drop him off at P3? I need someone to cover for me. Crystal's son is sick with the flu, so I'm down a pair of hands."

"I thought Crystal works at the restaurant."

"Normally she does," Piper concurred, slipping briefly from hardcore super-witch to fatigued businesswoman. "Astronomica's business has been a bit slow lately, so she's been my extra hands at a ridiculously over-popular club. Not that I'm complaining. At least one of them's bringing in cash." Bringing herself back to the task at hand, she prompted, "Leo? Can you—you know?"

"Right. Be back in a minute." She vanished before her sentence was completed.

One woman down, Piper paused to take a breath, both eyes shut as she determined their next course of action. The tension in her shoulders unwound in the few seconds she let herself relax before getting down to business. When she opened her eyes again, she stepped out of her role as Piper Halliwell and into Charmed One. "Okay," she said at length. And again, "Okay," this one with more focus. "Chris, scrying board? And bring down the Book, too, while you're up there. We can _definitely_ take this guy."

Twenty minutes later things had more or less settled. Piper stood over Chris's shoulder as, elbow leaning against his propped-up knee, he swung the amulet over an outdated map of San Francisco. Across the room, Paige sat eyes closed, regulating her heartbeats and breathing as her sensing powers struck out blindly for a creature she had never encountered.

"Anything?" Piper pressed. When Chris shook his head, she said, "Not even a tug?"

Chris shrugged, shifted weight off his knee, and straightened his spine with a satisfying crack. "Maybe he decided to sleep in today," the boy suggested. His mother's swat to the arm he took with a silent wince, but his remark won its desired result—Piper wandered away from him to stand beside her sister instead. Usually by this time, Piper was elbow-deep in magical ingredients, halfway through a vanquishing potion. But with no hints from Phoebe's premonition andno entry from the Book of Shadows, she had no information upon which to base a vanquish. She could only hover uselessly and wait for something to change.

Phoebe had called a few minutes earlier with a frustrated report on the day's traffic that included her car at the center of the scene. She would be at least another fifteen minutes, if not twenty. Until she arrived, the Book of Shadows, which lay abandoned on the coffee table, could offer no assistance. Without their 'seer,' they were blind.

"Could really use a tip here," Piper grumbled loudly, unsure to whom her ire was directed.

For Paige the voice beside her ear broke her concentration. The look she cast at her sister went, for the most part, ignored. Broken from her trance, she now noticed the cramping in her legs and the itch she had thus far disregarded. After satisfying her itch, she resettled herself on the couch and then closed her eyes to try again. Her breathing slowed, her heartbeat calmed, and she felt herself return to the depths from which she had emerged. Just as she reclaimed control of her reservoir of magic, a petulant whine penetrated her thoughts.

From Chris, bored by inaction, came a frustrated, "Why am I the only one who has to be here? It's not fair."

At once, relieved to finally have something useful to do, Piper admonished, "Because. Prue's too young, and Wyatt's at the library. _He_ practiced his potions last night so he could study for the test he has tomorrow. _He_ plans ahead."

Chris found it odd that, two weeks ago, Prue's age had been perfectly adequate for the dirty-work of demon-hunting but since then had apparently—or at least according to their mother—regressed to the helplessness of infancy. Even he could see the frustration mounting in his little sister, who concealed her ire rather poorly, while Piper, their omniscient mother and matriarch of their coven, seemed oddly oblivious. But what _really_ confused Chris was how she could say "Wyatt" and "library" without pausing at her own words. Wyatt—willingly taking up a book? No more likely than Chris's ability to go an entire week without detention. And the extent of Wyatt's ability to plan ahead was remembering to brush his teeth before bed. But if Chris breathed a word about Wyatt's whereabouts… Well, he didn't fancy an encounter with a charged, twice-blessed witch. Especially since, for the past couple of weeks, Wyatt hadn't acted like himself. So Chris said nothing and continued to scry, complaints on mute.

After a few minutes of silence, Paige's breathing fell out of sync and her eyes opened, remorse thick. "I got nothing." She stretched her tingling muscles and moved to get up. When Piper opened her mouth to protest, Paige explained, "It's late. I told Bobby I'd be there to pick him up ten minutes ago." Piper, unappeased, folded her arms over her chest. "Look," Paige sighed, "the attack obviously hasn't happened yet or between me, Chris, and Phoebe, we'd know. I have to pick up Bobby from his play date. I'll drop him off at the station and then come back for round two, okay?" Lips pursed, Piper gave one sharp nod.

As soon as her sister's orbs dissipated, she wheeled back around and rounded her frustration onto her son. "Anything?" she demanded.

From beneath lowered lashes, Chris looked over at his mother, at the rigid set of her shoulders and the tightly pressed lips. Now was not the time for light-hearted quips, he knew. Gravely, he answered, "Nothing. But he's bound to surface at some—"

A high-pitched trill cut him off; vibrations seized Chris from the waist down. As Piper spun to seek the source of the noise, Chris jammed a hand into his pocket to relieve it of a ringing cell phone. Another alto trill. With one glance at the caller ID, Chris leapt from his seat, phone held out at arm's length as if its owner feared it might explode. "Shoot, it's Dwight!"

"So?" Piper frowned. "Call him back later. Tell him you were busy."

"You don't understand," Chris protested. The ring interrupted him, and he glared at the phone, furious that it could betray him by putting through Dwight's call. "We were supposed to go to a movie today. We planned to see it ages ago, but I got detention and… Shoot, what do I do—?"

When Piper released a sigh, it seemed to soften her face: shoulders relaxed, the darkness of stress seeped out of her eyes, and she even smiled softly. Guiding his hand back to his chest, she remarked, "Answer it, then. As long as Paige comes back before the demon attacks, I don't see why we can't handle it without you." Appreciated though the unexpected kindness was, it caught Chris too much by surprise for him to react. He stared stupidly at the palm of his hand, then up to his mom. Off his bewilderment, she encouraged, "Go on, you deserve some sort of normalcy. I know how that feels. Your aunts and I have got this one." She gave him a smile, which he returned, if a bit uncertainly. He felt a surge of gratitude—for once, he wouldn't have to cancel on his best friend. As he flipped open the phone and, somewhat belatedly, pressed it to his ear, Piper traded positions with him. She collected the crystal from his loose grip and dangled it over the map.

"Chris!" Dwight announced into the phone, voice a few decibels too loud for the receiver. "I thought you were gonna come over before the movie!"

"Dwight, quit yelling." Chris yanked the phone away from his ear. "I can hear you just fine."

"I'm not yelling! And the movie starts in half an hour, so you coming or what?"

Suddenly, Piper's lazy thoughts, which were half-listening to the one-sided conversation, were brought back to her task with a sharp tug. Tension flooded back into her body. The crystal. It had gotten a whiff of the demon—an attack. And neither sister had yet arrived to her aid.

"Yeah, yeah," Chris was saying, "sorry. I got held—"

"Chris," Piper interrupted, voice low, "the crystal's falling."

Chris froze, disbelieving. Freedom, his delicate freedom, fast drained from sight. Desperately, he cried, "What! But it can't!"

"Now who's yelling?" Dwight quipped. "Look, it's no big deal if you're busy. We can meet at the theater. No need to freak—"

"Hang on," Chris interrupted sharply. Panic spread in his chest, expanding like a poisonous gas, suffocating. Suctioning his hand to the receiver, the boy hissed, "But the movie—you promised!"

Piper closed her eyes, willing the crystal not to fall. "I said _if_ your aunt comes back in time," she corrected. Even before she said it, she knew the excuse would not satisfy him. For all purposes, she had just handed him the keys to his freedom and then, as he stood at the threshold, yanked him back into his prison cell. But what else could she do? They could not allow yet another Innocent to perish at this demon's hand. Heavily, the witch sighed. Though she hated allowing this responsibility to so disruptively pervade her son's life, he understood as well as she that this was a burden they could not shirk. "Chris, I didn't think he'd attack either, but the crystal is pulling."

With his own eyes he could see she was right. The chain swung against her grip with ferocious strength, winding in tighter and smaller circles as it honed in on a location. The demon was afoot, and with no one else available the task fell to him. Saying no was not an option. His responsibility had existed since birth, bound by the blood of the Halliwell line. He could no more escape this than he could his whitelighter heritage, or those vestiges of mortality that left him yearning for a normal life.

He glared, but that was the only rebellion he could afford without wasting time their Innocent might not have. Voice rich with frustration, he dutifully muttered into the phone, "I can't make it to the movie today. I'm really sorry. Something just came up."

"What?" Now Dwight's yelling came for yelling's sake, but Chris didn't dare move the phone from his ear. How could he? The anger was more than justified, and what else could Chris say to rectify the situation? "What do you mean you can't make it? What came—"

"Chris, the crystal dropped. We have a location."

"—How could something come up? We were meant to see this _ages_ ago—"

"Chris, a witch is in trouble. We need to orb!"

Eyes squeezed shut, Chris curled his hand into a fist. His head ached fiercely from the barrage of noise coming at him from both sides. Teeth clenched. Why couldn't Paige have waited ten more minutes? Why did Wyatt have to choose today to go out and "study"? Now both were gone, and Chris was the only one, a duty he dared not evade at the risk of losing a life. The stakes were too high for him to allow his own petty stubbornness to stop him. Though Dwight's justified fury branded Chris with guilt, he had a job to do.

Hating himself for the words, he whispered into the phone, "I'm sorry, I have to go. I'll call you later."

"But, Chris—"

The instant his phone clicked shut, Chris felt a hand seize his elbow. Right now, he couldn't bear even to look at his mother, never mind touch her; but her grip was too strong for him to shake off. Besides, it would have been a wasted phone call if he blew off his best friend and they _still _lost the Innocent.

Piper's voice interrupted the turmoil within his head. "It's between Fillmore and Bush." When he didn't immediately react, she urged, "Chris, let's go." He opened his eyes, and anger surged forward to greet him. The_ Innocent._ Never mind her son, who had scheduled his plans ages ago as his mother claimed Wyatt had done. Wyatt, who didn't plan a day in his life, but Chris—he had gone to the effort and still came away with nothing to show for it. Never mind that his mother claimed to profess advocating a normal life. When it came right down to it, she still dropped her own existence to save another's. If some idiot witch was too dumb to know not to cross directly into a demon's path, then why was it their job to save her? And just because his mom's Wiccan duty as a Charmed One obligated her to protect, why did _he_ have to turn into her faithful taxi service? No one asked his permission before enslaving him to 'the Greater Good.' Right now, he wanted to be as far away from all of this as poss…

Until he fully materialized behind a parked garbage truck on Bush Street, Chris didn't realize what he had done. Violent and raging, the emotions that had overwhelmed him seized magic from his control. The wish to escape all that tethered him had been granted; Piper was nowhere in sigh. She had been left behind. Ever-present, even in her absence, her voice echoed between his ears, ordering, _"Chris! Get back here! Come back! CHRIS!"_

"Oops," Chris said, not very apologetic at all. Although the departure had not been intentional, he didn't regret that the accident had occurred.

Putting her on mute—he would get an earful for it later, but he could help no one with it serving as a distraction—he took a moment to examine his surroundings. Quiet, nothing much out of the ordinary. A couple of people, none of whom had noticed his arrival, hurried along the sidewalk in both directions. Across the street, a row of short buildings, devoid of life. Closed for the weekend, while those who spent their days there went out with friends or family. Did normal weekend stuff, came back grumpy and tired Monday morning, ready to get reclaimed by the captivity of the week, looking forward—always—to the coming Friday, to freedom—

Forcing down his mounting ire, Chris reminded himself, _The sooner you deal with the demon, the soon you're off duty._

The question remained: where was this demon? With all the buildings tall enough to conceal an encounter, Chris couldn't be certain which one to check first. Running the wrong way meant losing time he couldn't spare. Then again, standing here uselessly did the same. He crossed the street, cocking his head to one side and blindly threw out his sensing powers as far as they could extend. He would not recognize the Innocent's unique mark, but perhaps he could detect a general sense of terror that frequently came with a demonic assault.

With no magical focus, the information he got nearly drowned him, but despite the surge of unfamiliar thoughts crowding into his brain, he persisted. Slowly, he sifted through and discarded the sounds of all the clueless passersby on the street, and then—

The noise hit him as if a physical blow. A whimper and moan and blood-curdling shriek intertwined into something that rent apart Chris's insides. There was something familiar there, too, a humming, like the low buzzing of a fly by his ear, but he couldn't identify it and the presence of fear overpowered the softness. Breath catching, he stumbled backwards from the force of emotion.

Although nearly incapacitating, the experiment had proved successful. Wheezing with pain, which stung in his chest each time he took a breath, the boy stumbled in the direction his senses led him. He garnered a couple of confused stares as he hobbled, half-crippled, down the sidewalk, but no one tried to stop him.

_Wounded before I even start to fight, _he thought grimly. _This isn't gonna be pleasant. _But even as he turned down the alleyway, the pain began to recede. By the time he disappeared completely behind the building, it had faded to little more than a memory. For protection, the boy ducked behind an open dumpster, cringing at the stench, and peered out in search of the Innocent. A few feet away, he spotted them—the Innocent's back to him. Jeans, a sweatshirt, mouse-brown hair sagging in a loose ponytail; a plastic Shop-Rite bag overturned on the cement at her feet. Its contents—bagged vegetables, canned Ramen Noodle Soups, and a novel with pages now bent—were scattered around her like an earthbound halo.

"What is it with Innocents and alleyways?" Chris muttered to himself. "Don't they ever learn?" Determined to get closer to the action, he edged along the side of a graffiti-sprayed building, pressed close to avoid detection. Just now, with concealment so imperative, he cursed the bright blue t-shirt he had thrown on that morning. With no intention of leaving the house, he had not bothered to get properly dressed; and during the hubbub of the demon-tracking, it had not occurred to him to change into more camouflaged colors. Still, he couldn't waste time lamenting now. He would have to pray for the element of surprise and the stupidity of his opponent.

Certainly the creature didn't _look_ too intelligent. Thick claws, extended, and a dim-witted, if menacing, sneer. Chris allowed himself only a second to take in the demon's features; a bare chest, rubbery skin a burnt shade of maroon. A sleeveless trench coat showed off the sinewy muscles etched into each arm. Aglow, eyes lighted on the prize trembling before him. The demon lit his hand with a sphere of crackling, blue energy. When the Innocent took a step back, she tripped on a stray can that had rolled beneath the heel of her shoe. She lost her footing and stumbled, but just as the demon raised his hand to strike, Chris decided it was high time he stepped in.

Normally, in these circumstances, Chris's quick wit jumped to his aid, but everyone had an 'off' day. It appeared today was his. Words seemed to abandon his every endeavor to retrieve them, so instead he settled for a simple, un-ignorable, "Hey—ugly!" The demon paused, mostly out of confusion, wondering if the comment had been meant for him and wondering if it had been an insult.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you," Chris continued, stepping into view. The time it took for the bewildered demon to lower its hand was all Chris needed to launch a full-blown verbal attack. "I know it's hard to tell—you probably don't have a mirror in whatever hole you live in—but even for a demon, I mean, _yuck. _Did your mother abandon you at birth for a face like that?"

The demon looked, if possible, even more perplexed. Frankly, Chris didn't blame him. He was grasping at straws here, not responsible for whatever absurdity happened to escape through his mouth. But it served its purpose. For now, the Innocent was still alive. As he spoke, Chris began to inch toward her. If he could just reach her and orb…

Noticing the movement, the demon let out a possessive growl and stepped forward. Chris froze. Teeth bared, the demon announced, "The witch is _mine_."

"Funny that," Chris responded rather amicably, "'Cause she's the one I came for."

The demon's broad shoulders rose with a territorial snarl. Preparing for a fight, muscles tightened visibly in his forearms. "I found her first," he said in a half-whine. "Go find your own powers to acquire."

"'Acquire,' big word," Chris approved, clapping twice in congratulations. "But don't you mean 'steal'?" At this point, still under the scrutiny of a demon on the offensive, he dared not try to reach the Innocent. It appeared he would have to get his hands bloody for this one.

"The witch is _mine_, boy," the demon repeated more forcefully. "Go back to the Underworld and play with your lizards. There's no place for you here." A fist rose, clenched.

"I'm not a demon; I'm a whitelighter." At his own words, he paused. Since when did he introduce himself as 'whitelighter'? As much as he took pride in the pacifist half of his heritage, he had always aligned himself with witches. But 'whitelighter' had slipped right out, almost naturally.

He resolved to ponder the implications later, or not at all since a slip of the tongue hardly indicated anything significant. Besides, he currently had more important things to deal with.

A guffaw of laughter burst from the demon's swollen lips. "Whitelighter?" he repeated, incredulous. "You? Little boy? So the Elders recruit dead _children_ now? I didn't realize they were so desperate."

"They're not," Chris countered, "I'm just that good." The boy adopted a battle stance of his own—his feet shifted, planting firmly against the cement. His hands, still at his sides, tensed in anticipation. Cautious, he watched the subtle shift as the demon's hands gravitated toward his waist. _He's got a knife, _Chris noted to himself, and then filed the fact away. Voice deceptively bright, he remarked, "Since I'm in a pretty generous mood, I'll make you a deal: You don't attack this witch, and I'll let you run off with your tail between your legs and all your body parts still attached. For today, anyway."

Finally, a threat—something the demon understood.

"_You_ will be the one to run, little whitelighter, and I won't offer such mercy." Paused at his waist, the demon's fingers curled in thought. He licked his lips. "I've never orbed before. How interesting it must be…" He left the sentence to die off as he conjured an energy ball in each hand and charged.

To the Innocent, who had remained strangely silent through the whole encounter, Chris called out, "Get yourself somewhere safe!" He kept his eyes trained on the fast advancing monster. When the demon was only five feet away, Chris held up a hand. In his mind, he felt the thick, leathery skin against his palm; felt muscles strain against the sudden pressure his magic forced upon the demon. Unable to break through the invisible barrier, the demon's body came to a halt. Both energy balls sputtered out of existence. After a moment, taking care to steady his powers first, the 'little whitelighter' thrust his hand forward. With it, the demon flew backward, arms, legs, and head outstretched in front of him. He collided with the wall of a building and went down with a thump and a groan.

Chris allowed himself a smile. "Nice work," he commended, but to his surprise was immediately forced to duck and deflect a bluish sphere of pulsing light. By the time he resumed his stance, the demon had already clamored to his feet, recovered. "O-_kay_, quicker than I gave him credit for." In the exact time it took to dive out of the way, another energy ball careened past his head. He heard it sizzle as it passed.

"Careful!" someone cried. The Innocent—_I thought I told her to get lost,_ Chris thought with frustration. This was why they got killed right and left: because they refused to follow a set of simple instructions. Alone, Chris would have stayed to finish off the demon once and for all, but he couldn't risk the Innocent's life just because she was too dumb to know the meaning of the word 'run.'

"Okay," he muttered, half aloud and half to himself, "time to get out of here." Resolved in the face of an updated plan, he spun to confront the Innocent. "We're gonna have to…" The instructions, confident at first, died in his throat. His green eyes widened, stunned. The Innocent stared back, eyes wide and face blanched with fear, but lips quirked at her counterpart's obvious surprise. "M-Miss Gowell?"

While Chris fought, she had gained those few short minutes to come to terms with the peculiarity of the situation. Her student—in battle—with a demon, no less! How did he even _know_ about demons, much less have powers of his own? What was he even _doing_ here?

"But-but—" the boy stuttered, clearly just as bewildered as she had been.

"Mister Halliwell," she pronounced wryly, and then—eyes growing wide and panic overwhelming the irony—"Behind you!"

Instinct made Chris turn, only to have his shoulder make acquaintance with the energy ball that had been hurled at his spine. Pain shot through his arm. Although training had taught him to remain on his feet, the overwhelming sensation had him sinking to the ground with a heavy groan. His vision dimmed, swam.

He heard a deep voice—the demon's—but couldn't make out words over the blood roaring in his ears. The distinctive 'whoosh' of an energy ball. A shriek. The demon's chuckle; this time Chris forced his brain to decipher it: "Come out, come out, witch. I know you're here somewhere. I know your powers; you can't fool me. Can't hide forever! You wouldn't leave the precious little whitelighter all alone to die, would you?"

Suddenly, Chris felt a grip tighten on his arm. When he squinted upward, he could see nothing, but he definitely felt a hand on him—that he couldn't deny. "Wha—?" Vision blurred, he relinquished himself to his inner eyes. They reopened the world before him. His senses registered the sound he had heard earlier, the combination of fear and that familiar tug, which he now recognized as his teacher. At his side, it hummed into his ear, although he could swear no one stood beside him. Beyond that, the deep, mocking laugh; the growl—of a demonic presence. It sauntered toward him, apparently bored of searching for his victim when here lay another, completely helpless. Bewilderment climaxed when, in his ear, an urgent voice whispered, "Chris, you have to get up. Come on, we need to get you to a hospital…"

The incongruity of the statement—a hospital, for a demon attack?—helped to clear his head. Using his senses to guide him, Chris shook off the invisible grip and rolled over onto his hands and knees. A bolt of fire shot down his shoulder in protest, but gritting his teeth, he ignored it. The fingers on both hands curled against the concrete. His knees pressed into loose pebbles, which dug into his skin like ever-tiny shards of glass. What he needed right now was more power. Without it, the demon would easily overpower him, and Chris had no interest in having his own powers up for grabs.

Even drained as he felt, Phoebe's constant drilling kicked in. He could hear her telling him to open his eyes. _There's magic in nature. Just _look _for it, Chris. _But in a cemented alleyway, devoid of life, what natural magic could possibly exist?

"Go deeper," he breathed to himself. "_Focus._"

With ease, his bruised body slipped into the meditative breathing pattern Phoebe had ingrained in him. In, hold, out; in, hold, out. Pain faded to a recess in his mind, muted, tucking itself away for later. Right now, he had a job to complete.

Collecting his last strands of energy, the boy threw his magic out through his hands. It rushed past the thick cement, deeper, to the ground beneath. At his touch, the earth came alive. He could feel it breathe, its every breath echoing with ancient life, with history, with the dormancy it had endured from the creation of time until now. The deep eternity of the earth roared in his ears, the pulse of the universe itself. She sand to him in a voice his head could barely contain. He allowed her sentience to fill every crevice of his body and mind. Soon, his wounds were forgotten—no longer existed, for he had folded into the earth and let her take him over completely. In the shadow of such impossible vastness, his Self faded.

In a rush of strength, he switched directions. When the earth released her next slow breath, he thrust his magic outward. The ground gave one horrible lurch, which sent the demon sprawling. Excited at this new freedom, the earth began to tremble with energy. The rumbling grew louder until it was deafening.

Through his bond with the earth, Chris felt everything from inside him. He felt a presence at his side—the one he still could not see, but the earth's power went beyond human sight. He felt the demon—a wrongness so profound, the earth felt it necessary to expel it from her midst.

_With that, I agree with you,_ Chris told her. He called her forward, focusing the infinity of her magic with the structure his own limits could provide. Guided, the magic sprouted upward, stealing through the top layer of cement that held her captive. Spaced evenly between Chris's hands, the cement broke away. Freed, magic shot forward, splitting the ground as it zigzagged toward the Wrongness. The fallen demon rolled to his feet just as, with a terrifying roar, each side of the jagged crevice ripped away from the other.

Ms. Gowell stared at Chris's straining muscles, the concentration that wrinkled his forehead and tightened his jaw. Just in time, the demon noticed his inconvenient location, one foot situated on either side of the growing gap.

The demon's lips were moving but his threat, swallowed in the roar, went unheard. Then, the air around him began to shiver, and by the time Ms. Gowell blinked once he had faded into nothing. Still, the gap continued to grow. One look at Chris's closed eyes determined he had not noticed the demon's departure.

"Chris!" she screamed over the noise. "Chris, he's gone!" Before she could physically shake him out of his trance, the rumbling subsided. Breathing heavily, Chris forced himself to relax. The power gushed out of him, escaping into the crack as the earth, pacified with her work, returned to her slumber. The sudden emptiness left Chris's bones aching with fatigue. By the time he opened his eyes, the only thing left was the jagged line that cut deep into the earth's crust. Shaky, Chris forced his feet beneath him, although he had to lean heavily against the wall for support. His chest rose and fell with exaggerated motions, clinging to the air with desperation. As soon as, thinking himself stable, he stepped forward, his legs buckled. He stumbled—but before he could fall, something grabbed him.

"Easy," instructed a soft voice. In his state of utter exhaustion, it didn't strike him as suspicious that the hands that caught him and the voice that soothed him did not come with a body attached to them.

Stupidly, he announced, "Nobody's here. I shouldn't be standing right now." His mind felt like jell-O. Softer than jell-O—like mush. _A big, blobby mush_, he thought, and that sounded funny enough to make him grin.

"What are you talking about?" said the voice, bewildered.

"And I shouldn't be hearing a voice right now," continued Chris, "but I do."

"Chris, did you hit your… ohh."

There was a pregnant pause, and then suddenly Chris could see that the hands holding him steady were female. Little by little, everything else leaked into view, from the wrists to the elbows to the shoulders, then down the torso, legs, and finally her neck and then face; until there stood his teacher, alive and unharmed.

"Oh," Chris said dimly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Hullo, Ms. Gowell."

Unsure of what else to say, Ms. Gowell replied, "Uh, hi." Chris laughed.

"How did you…?" With one hand, he motioned vaguely to her face.

"It's my power," she explained. "I can… turn invisible." She felt silly saying those words aloud, but then again, Chris had literally opened the earth with sheer willpower. After that, her little 'disappearing act' seemed like no more than a magician's parlor trick. "But I can't do it on command," she rushed to admit, and with a fair amount of embarrassment also added, "And I can't actually tell when it's happening."

This admission seemed to leave Chris unperturbed. "Wow," he breathed, "that's sickly cool."

He said nothing for a few moments, preferring instead to stare at her, eyes roving over her face with scrutiny. He looked as if he were about to ask something, but then—apparently thinking better of it—stopped. At length, he finally sighed, allowing pragmatism to slowly filter back into his brain. His muscles felt like paste, his head throbbed in time with his heartbeats, and his brain felt as if it had gotten stuck mid-yawn, open and gaping for all to enter. Despite this, he had not finished what he had been sent to do, and that realization was enough to sober him, at least temporarily. "We should go somewhere safe," he announced.

"Okay," Marcy replied, too shaken by the whole encounter to even think to disagree. "My car's down the block if you—"

"Oh." Chris gave a chuckle. "I've got a faster way." Instinctively, she took the arm he extended; only afterwards did it occur to her to follow him with caution and not blindly, especially with that lopsided grin he couldn't completely erase from his features. "Don't worry," he assured even as she began to, "it doesn't hurt." His orbs seemed to rush out to greet him, embracing with the warmth and familiarity of an old friend. After the raw energy that had left his insides ragged, their soft, fluttery touch soothed his weary bones. Relieved, the confines of his body melted into their caress. At the last minute he even remembered to take his teacher with him, and she began to dissolve as well.

"Wait!" Ms. Gowell cried in a panic, "_What_ doesn't hurt?"

* * *

**Author's Note: After many long months, yes, it's true - I'm back. To any of you who may still be reading, kudos on your tenacity. In your position, I may have abandoned this long ago. To that end, I'm very sorry. Some of you are aware (and the rest are about to be informed) that I didn't have internet for a good ten or eleven months, and the brief stints I did have were spent writing to friends. But enough about that. The point is, although I didn't post, I didn't stop working on the story. I wanted to be able to post immediately upon my return to the world of internet. However, I got back a good few weeks ago at this point and, as you may have noticed, this is my first post since then. I wanted to give you guys a great chapter to break the hiatus. Unfortunately, action scenes are not my forte. I am, in fact, rather embarrassingly bad at writing them. But I didn't want to shortchange the scene, so I went through edit after merciless edit to bring it up to par. When I gave up on Friday afternoon, I still wasn't happy with it, but I was so sick of reading the same words again and again that I knew it was either post - or scrap the entire thing and begin again. Doing the latter may very well have disheartened all further attempts, so I decided to post as is. Apologies, truly.**

**Also, I'm sorry for the extra long chapter. Some of you may prefer them, but my preference has always been chapters on the shorter side (most likely due to my utter lack of attention span), so to those of you who share the same feeling - I do try to keep them shorter when I can. I just couldn't find the right place to stop. As it was, I felt I cut short the scene, but I think it was a good place to pause without feeling like there was something missing there. Hopefully, the next chapter will be up soon, as it's half done already, maybe more so depending on how many edits it needs. (Needless to say, the "action" has not yet ended. :P)**

**Don't forget to take a stab at the quote's relationship to the chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Often I get some interesting connections that never occured to me. I love reading those best!**

**Now, for replies to some reviews:**

Birlygirl - I tried to reply to your review personally, but I couldn't find an account you were linked to. Alas, a public response will have to do. _"My enjoyment of your story outweighed my displeasure of the public humiliation list" _- Wow, you're a good soul. I think that would have turned me off immediately. :P What can I say? I can be quite the passionate person when I have my moments. I fully agree with you, though, that the extent to which I went was - ah - extreme. (Not that I don't still agree with my old self about helping a fellow author with some criticism, but I've mellowed - mostly because I've found more important beliefs to fight for, I guess, and that one, by comparison, pales just the slightest bit.) _"I LOVE Bobby"_ - I'm so glad! You know the feeling when you share your favorite book with someone... and you wonder, "Will she like it, too?" It's like sharing a part of yourself. Well, I've got a soft spot in my heart for Bobby. All my characters have at least _one _deep, dark secret that interferes with living a normal, happy, healthy life (shall we say what that indicates about me? let's not), but Bobby - I can't do that to him. I want him to stay innocent, so innocent he shall remain! At least in _this _world... _"You have me feeling miserable for Katie" _- Thank you! Actually, because she was so well received (okay, okay, mostly because _I _like her), I've decided to work her into the story a bit more than originally intended. I hope you like the way her story unfolds. :) When I wrote her scene in the previous chapter, I have to admit, I wasn't sure about it. I couldn't decide if it was a bit heavy, you know? So I'm glad to get your very much trusted approval. _"Dwight is getting kind of boring." _- Noted. I'll try to see how I can spice him up a bit. I do have some plans for him down the line, but maybe I should work them in a bit earlier so that his interest isn't completely killed before we get there.

() - _sigh_. I only wish people could give names so that I'd know who I'm talking to. It's hard enough not having a face to put to a written word, but to not even have a name? It's like speaking to a blank wall. Very difficult. :P In any case, I liked the reviews (two of them) so much that I have to respond anyway. I hope whoever wrote it will know who you are. You said you thought Chris would have known to go to the school nurse as a cover. Err... You could definitely be right, but it didn't occur to _me _that he should go to the school nurse, so maybe the two of us will just claim obtuse and hang our heads in shame? I _will _try to keep an eye out for such obvious plot manipulation in the future, though. The second comment you mentioned was that, while the Elders can be inconsiderate, you can't see them giving a charge to a half-trained underage witch who still has school and responsibilities of his own. I can see where you would say they'd give Jake a more experienced whitelighter, but I have to disagree about the whole school thing. Honestly, I got the feeling that the personal lives of their protectors - witches, whitelighters, etc. - did fall very high on their list of things to consider. Thank you so much - I value your thoughts more than most. They were immensely helpful - gave me a challenge to focus on as I continue writing the story. The next time you see anything that requires "a suspense of your belief," I hope I'll be the first to know!


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